Found and Lost
by doyou000me
Summary: At the age of 10, Harry Potter disappeared. 5 years later, he is found again – At St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys. Where will he find his place as he enters a conflicted world of magic? SLASH. Temporarily on HIATUS
1. Chapter 1

**I was going to write a buffer of finished chapters before uploading this – _was_ being the key word since I decided that I most definitely have to know what you think ;)**

Minerva McGonagall could proudly state that she had worked as a professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for the past 40 years, and during those years of teaching, she had seen and experienced everything when it came to the lives of youths. At least, that was what she had thought until she stepped through a pair of iron gates, dressed in a black suit jacket over a white blouse, a matching pencil skirt and a pair of heels clicking against the asphalt. A grey block of a building loomed before her, the empty squares of the windows staring down at her as she read the sign above the entrance: St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys.

"If you'll follow me, Mrs. McGonagall," the burly guard who had admitted her instructed disinterestedly.

He led her over what she realized must be the school yard, but there was no grass, no relaxing area to breathe the fresh air or enjoy the sunny day. Not that there was any fresh air here in the outskirts of London, and this concrete courtyard surrounded by high fences could hardly bring any stimulus to the students. All there was for the children to enjoy themselves with was a basket hoop of linked chains attached to a windowless wall and a picnic table where a group of teens were gathered. She was shocked to note that they were openly smoking, and even thought the guard could not possibly be ignorant of the fact, he did nothing!

The elderly teacher pursed her lips disapprovingly as her gaze lingered on the gathered boys. From this distance, she could not be sure of their age, but she would guess that they were in the middle of their teens. Most of them were rather big, tall and brawny with the arms of the shirts rolled up to show their muscular arms and their pants hanging low on their hips, showing the lining of their boxers – how _inappropriate_! They were all sitting or standing around the picnic table, with the exception of one boy.

Even while seated, Minerva could see that the boy was shorter than the others, and his built appeared to be the opposite; a thin, lithe frame underneath a hoodie, his fingers long and thin around the cigarette as he brought it to his lips. He was the only one seated atop the table, giving him an elevated position when compared to the other, and Minerva could only wonder if this was intentional and held meaning or if it was simply coincidental.

"This way, ma'am," the guard called for her attention, and she turned to see that he held the entrance door open for her.

"Thank you, dear," she answered primly and entered the slightly cooler interior of what was supposed to be a school. The walls were all concrete painted white with a grey line in height with her waist, and the floors were of linoleum in a hue matching the line. The unforgiving fluorescent light glaring from the ceiling hardly made the place look more cheerful, and Minerva found herself missing the ancient halls of Hogwarts as the guard led her past one door identical to the next and up a pair of wide stairs where some teens were reading muggle comics.

"This is it," the guard indicated a door, and before anymore could be said, he'd turned and left the way they came.

Minerva frowned after him before schooling her expression into a polite smile and pulling a bit at the skirt, finding it a good thing that she was alone in the corridor. While the skirt would be considered more than proper in muggle standards, it was far shorter than the robes she usually wore that tended to brush the floor at her feet. Raising a wrinkled, old hand, she knocked the door before her firmly while reading the plaque that announced this to be the office of some K. Blake, director of the institute.

"Come on in!"

The office behind the door held the same white walls and grey floor as the corridor outside, but the desk was of fine, polished wood and there were framed diplomas on the wall behind the corpulent man in the office chair.

"Who are you?" he asked, looking the strict professor up and down with a look that evoked Minerva's immediate dislike.

"My name is Minerva McGonagall. I believe I have a meeting booked," she answered coldly and gave the man a hard look that had made many unruly students better themselves.

It would appear the gaze worked just as well on the middle-aged man before her, as he sat a bit straighter and cleared his throat.

"McGonagall? Oh, yes, that, that's," he mumbled, searching among the papers spread out across the surface of the desk.

"I am here to meet with Mr. Harry Potter," Minerva reminded him, the man's disorderliness furthering her dislike for him.

"Potter?" he barked with a frown. "Why ever would you want to see that punk?"

"That would be a matter of confidentiality, Mr. Blake. Now, where can I find Mr. Potter?"

"Eh? Oh, um, well then… _JONES!_" he bellowed, his voice rebounding from the hard surfaces of the room. No one answered him, however.

"If you are calling for the guard, he has already left," Minerva saw fit to inform the man, and he shot her a glare.

"Bloody incompetent bastard, should have given him the boot a long time ago, good-for-nothing is what he is," the director grumbled as he heaved himself up from the chair and walked over to the door. Minerva followed him a few doors down the corridor, where the man threw open a door to a smaller office where a worn man sat behind a rickety desk, talking on the phone.

"Stevens!" Blake shouted, his voice unnecessarily loud seeing as they were in the same room. "Hang up that blasted phone, a woman is here to talk with the Potter kid."

"Harry?" Stevens asked in confusion while hanging up the phone.

"Yeah, you're his mentor, ain't ya?"

With that, Blake left, and Stevens blinked at Minerva in surprise.

"Good day, my name is Minerva McGonagall and I am here to speak with Harry Potter. Mr. Stevens, was it?"

"Oh, yes, good day, Mrs. McGonagall," the younger man answered politely. "May I ask what you want to talk to Harry about?"

"I am a teacher at a private school, Mr. Stevens, and we would be very interested in having Mr. Potter, which is why I have been sent to speak with him today," Minerva answered kindly, finding this young man far more likeable.

"Really? A private school?" Stevens asked, looking unsure of what to believe. Still, he nodded and rose from behind his desk, glancing at the ticking clock on the wall as he came over to her. "Well, Harry should have a break right now, so I can show you to a room where the two of you can talk privately and then get him for you."

"Thank you – that would be lovely," Minerva replied and followed the man as he closed the door and walked down the corridor. "Are you responsible for Mr. Potter when he is here at St. Brutus, Mr. Stevens?"

"Yes, I am. He's a good kid."

"Oh? How come he ended up in this place, then?"

Stevens glanced at her over his shoulder, no doubt picking up on her dislike, but he did not seem the least bit offended.

"Problems at home, I've understood. Apparently, he was adopted by his aunt and uncle when his parents passed away, but his relatives… were not happy to have him, so to say."

Minerva's brows shot up in surprise. She'd known that Harry had lived with his relatives, at least for a while seeing as she had been there when Albus left the boy, but they had thought he had left the Dursley household some time ago. Apparently, that was not the case, but then why had they not been able to find him until yesterday?

"How would you say Mr. Potter's home environment has affected him, Mr. Stevens?" she asked after a moment.

"Well, he's a good kid, as I said, but he doesn't trust easily. He's clever, too, really smart, but studying isn't among his priorities, you know?" Stevens answered truthfully.

"Yes, I think I understand. How does he interact with the other children?"

Stevens glanced at her again, before stopping outside a door identical to all the others they had walked past.

"What you must understand, Mrs. McGonagall, is that none of the children who come here stay children for very long. The same applies to Harry," he explained, his tone serious. "When he first arrived, we thought the other boys would give him a hard time since he was really small for his age, and in the beginning, they did. As I said, Harry is smart, and it didn't take long until he gained the respect of the other boys. I have no idea how he did, and frankly, I'm not sure I want to know, but today, Harry is on top of the food chain, so to say."

Minerva was startled into silence, the words unexpected. Before she could question Stevens further, the man opened the door to a small room with blank walls, a table in the middle and a chair on each side, making the room look a lot like an interrogation room.

"Please, take a seat while I go find Harry," Stevens said before leaving, and Minerva did as instructed.

The man's words had taken her completely by surprise, and she found herself unsure of what to expect. Was Mr. Potter criminally inclined, or was he here only because of his relatives? And how had this harsh environment changed him?

About ten minutes passed in silence as she mulled it over, then the door opened and she rose from her seat to greet the boy Stevens had brought along. To her surprise, it was the boy she had seen sitting atop the picnic table, his posture slouched and his gaze guarded as he looked at her. The scar on his forehead was visible through his bangs, and now that she knew who he was, she could see James in his tousled, black hair and his eyes were all Lily's, but there was a hard edge to him, a darkness lurking just under the surface that she could only ascribe to his upbringing.

"Harry, this is Minerva McGonagall from, um, a private school. Mrs. McGonagall, this is Harry Potter," Stevens introduced them, and Minerva stepped forward to shake hands.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter."

The boy eyed her offered hand as if it was something dangerous, before hesitantly shaking it. He withdrew as quickly as possible.

Stevens gave Minerva a questioning look to which she nodded in answer, and he said: "Well then, I'll leave you to talk. Harry, you know where to find me if you need me."

Harry only grunted in answer, and then the door closed and they were left alone.

"Let's sit, shall we?" Minerva suggested kindly and took a seat, Harry following her example after an uncertain moment.

"Who are you?" Harry asked as soon as he was seated, his legs spread and his elbows resting on his knees with his hands hanging limply in between as he leaned forwards and stared at her.

"Did you not listen to Mr. Stevens?" Minerva chided. "My name is Minerva McGonagall and I come from a private school-"

"You're not from some private school," Harry interrupted impatiently, and Minerva raised her brows questioningly.

"No? How so, Mr. Potter?" she inquired, letting his bad manners slide for now.

"It's not like I've got top grades or anything, and I don't have a shitload of money, so a private school has no business being interested in me," he reasoned, a hard edge to his tone, telling her to that he wouldn't accept anything but the truth.

"But, you see – we are more interested in your abilities than your grades," Minerva explained and green eyes narrowed.

"What abilities?" he asked guardedly.

"Magic, Mr. Potter."

"Magic?" Harry repeated skeptically, but there was something in his eyes, something that disappeared after only a moment, but was enough to let Minerva know that the teen before her wasn't as disbelieving as he sounded. What held him back rather appeared to be his lack of trust in people and unwillingness to throw himself at something new that he had yet to verify.

"Why, yes, Mr. Potter," Minerva replied, amused. "Allow me to reintroduce myself; I am Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"So that would make me…?" he asked, his gaze still doubting.

"A wizard, Mr. Potter – just like your father was a wizard and your mother a witch," Minerva replied, expecting the teen to inquire more about his parent. To her surprise, he did not.

"You expect me to believe that?" he asked instead, his body tensed as if he was readying himself to leave.

Realizing the importance of convincing him so as not to lose him now when they had just found him, Minerva quickly asked: "Have you ever experienced something… unusual, Mr. Potter? Something you cannot explain, cannot understand? Strange things tend to occur around those with magic."

The teen did not answer, but she could see it in his eyes, see the recognition and comprehension even though he tried to hide it. Yes – he knew what she was talking about, and now she had his full attention.

"That is your accidental magic at work," she explained. "At Hogwarts, we will teach you how to control you magic and have it do your bidding. Most students begin their education at the age of eleven, but I am sure we will be able to fit you into the curriculum."

"Prove it," the teen demanded, his eyes slightly narrowed. "Prove that you're really a witch or whatever."

Minerva cocked a brow at him in humor, then turned into her animagus form of a cat without further ado, drawing a gasp from Harry as all he saw from his seat was her disappearance. The chair scraped against the floor as he stood and leaned over the table to see the black tabby looking back at him from Minerva's chair, and his eyes widened in shock. Satisfied with his reaction, the animagus turned back to her human form and smiled at the young man before her. Reaching into her inner pocket, she withdrew his Hogwarts letter and pushed it over the table to come to rest before him.

"How about it, Mr. Potter? Would you like to learn how to use magic?"

* * *

The room was white and square, identical to every other dorm room at 'Brutus with beds and closets for two people. The room's bareness was countered by the overflowing personalities inhabiting the room, posters attached to every centimeter of wall with pins and a mess of clothes and things spread over the floor. Music blared from the speakers precariously positioned on the windowsill, the heavy bass shaking the walls, pulsing with the bodies moving on the floor, two men occupying one of the beds, their hands roaming freely without care for the other people in the room as they snogged, one of them having trust his tongue down the other's throat.

Harry was sitting on the other bed, his body completely relaxed as he leaned back against the wall, his legs loosely folded before him and his eyelids on half-mast. The music pulsed with the blood pumping through his veins, the rhythm of his heart attuned to the beat as he raised the joint to his lips and took a drag, the smoke curling through his insides. In his other hand, he had a bottle of booze, half of its clear contents already gone.

His gaze drifted lazily to the guys on the floor, raising their own bottles of alcohol to their lips as they moved to the music, as few of them eyeing him but none courageous enough to approach him – at least not yet. The corner of his mouth curled upwards at the thought, and he closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall, comforted by the familiarity of the situation. This, he knew. Here, he was in control. The booze flowed freely and the drugs were accessible to anyone who wanted some, both of which had been smuggled in by some teacher. They didn't have to worry about being found out since it was the kind of secret that everyone knew about, and those who were bothered by it knew to look the other way.

The thin mattress of the bed dipped and if the music hadn't been so loud, he'd have been able to hear the squeak of the springs. Opening his eyes just enough to see though his lashes, Harry looked down his nose at an older teen who'd put his knee on the mattress, glazed, brown eyes staring back at him. A moment passed between them, then Harry dropped the bottle and reached out to put his hand on the other's neck and pull him into a kiss, the older teen quickly yielding to his dominance. He might be short and thin, but no one had challenged him since Stan left. The kiss was wet, tasted of alcohol and smoke and lacked all traces of tenderness.

Soon, Harry felt how the other's hands – he didn't even know the guy's name – fumbled with the zipper of his jeans. Moving his hand from the guy's neck to his shoulder, Harry broke the kiss and pushed him downwards and the guy went willingly as clumsy hands reached into his boxers. Wet, searing heat engulfed him and Harry threw his head back, his hand finding purchase in strawberry blonde hair. Whoever this guy was, he obviously knew what he was doing and he was _good_. The last word probably slipped over his lips, for he could feel the other smirk and renew his efforts, drawing a heartfelt moan from Harry, his hand clenching in the guy's hair. His body shuddered and he felt his abdomen quiver, his cock pulsing as he came, the lack of contact with anything but his right hand shortening his endurance.

Sliding sideways, Harry collapsed limply onto the bed, his limbs heavy and his mind pleasantly blank in post-orgasmic bliss. He felt the joint being plucked from between his fingers and opened his eyes to see the guy take a drag on it before leaning down, clearly aiming for a kiss that Harry denied by turning his face away. The guy frowned and grabbed Harry's bony hips, his intentions obvious, but Harry wasn't interested in anything more. Roused from his blissful state, he raised himself up onto one elbow and grabbed the other by the throat, his movements quick and practiced, his fingers hard and unyielding as the older teen tried to pry them away to draw breath.

Hard, green eyes met shocked, brown ones, and Harry manipulated his _magic_, as that old woman had called it, into rising around him. He knew it could not be seen as anything more than the slightest shift in the air around him, but it could most certainly be felt. Brown eyes widened in fear and panic, pathetic, strangled whimpers escaping him, and when Harry released him, he immediately scrambled away and fled, the others in the room barely noticing.

Harry huffed and rubbed his face before reaching down to tuck himself in and zip up, the first signs of headache and nausea manifesting. Beginning to feel bad, he got up from the bed and moved towards the door, a big, bulky guy catching his eyes as he went. Harry simply waved his hand dismissively, signaling for them to continue without him as he went out into the corridor and over to the communal bathroom. The harsh glare of the light cut into his brain and he hissed in pain as he went over to the sink and splashed some cold water onto his face and into his hair, the coolness soothing against his heated skin.

Once he entered his own room, he felt seriously bad and did most certainly not think about that guy who had had a bad trip and died of the mix of drugs and alcohol a year ago. The fact that he would feel even worse tomorrow did nothing for his mood as he threw off his shirt, kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto his bed, the room blissfully quiet in comparison even though the beat still pulsed steadily through the wall. The world disappeared in a swirl of colours as soon as his head hit the lumpy pillow.

* * *

For once, he wished he'd been wrong. Unfortunately, he wasn't, for the next day he envied the guy who'd died and thought he would gladly take his place as he kneeled over the toiled and heaved up the contents of his stomach. His head was pounding, his eyes hurting and his mouth dry and tasting of something rotten as his whole body ached, clearly protesting his treatment of it. Once finished, his stomach empty and cramping, he dried his mouth on the back of his hand and flushed before leaving the stall and shuffling over to the sink to brush his teeth and wash his face with the hope for returning from the dead. In the corner of the bathroom lay a guy slouched on the cold tiles, an empty bottle in his hand. Harry thought he recognized him from yesterday, and vindictively thought that the guy still had the worst before him.

Combing his fingers through his shaggy, black hair, he left the bathroom and went back to his own room to once again collapse onto his bed with a hand over his eyes to block out the light coming through the blinds over the window. The whole building seemed to be silent, but then again, most of its occupants were suffering the consequences of yesterday's partying or still passed out somewhere. It wasn't surprising, really, as the partying was bound to increase with the approach of the summer holidays. Even though few of them actually had a warm home and loving family waiting for them, the holidays were still eagerly anticipated.

Rubbing his hands over his face tiredly, Harry rolled over onto his side and heard something crinkle underneath the pillow. Reaching in under it, he withdrew the thick envelope that the old woman had given him yesterday, addressed to him in green ink. The wax seal on the backside was already broken when he turned it over as he had skimmed through it already, trying to judge if it was some elaborate hoax or if the whole deal with magic could actually be true. If it was true, _if _being the key word, then the thought of learning to control his magic further was very appealing as he tried to imagine the possibilities it would present him with.

Then again, he didn't know what they meant with learning to control his magic, which might mean that there was nothing for them to teach him – he had, after all, been in control of his so called _accidental_ _magic_ for years now. It had been a must, seeing as it had been one of few things he'd had at his disposal in the fight to stay alive when he first arrived at 'Brutus all those years ago. He'd been the smallest and weakest, an easy victim in the eyes of the bigger, older boys, and so he'd been quick to master his special ability in order to make use of it. Still, he hadn't told the old woman about any of this, as he'd gotten the impression that it wasn't normal to be able to control ones magic without some education or whatever. If this whole magic thing was real, then he needed to stay low and watch until he'd learnt the rules before he started revealing himself, and he most certainly didn't want to stand out from the very beginning.

Harry groaned and stuffed away the letter again as he squeezed his eyes shut, his head protesting the amount of serious thinking when he was already suffering from the worst hangover in his lifetime – at least, that was what it felt like at the moment. Anyway, he usually avoided deep thinking unless it regarded his continued survival, so he had, naturally, not thought much about the future. Doing so seemed generally worthless seeing as 'Brutus hardly fostered law-abiding citizens, not to mention the fact that he didn't know if he would lose a fight tomorrow and be knocked out to never wake up again, or if his body would be able to handle the poisonous mix of drugs, alcohol and tobacco that he filled it with.

Ah, when speaking of tobacco… He reached down between the frame of the bed and the mattress to find a crumbled pack of cigarettes and a lighter, the two expertly employed until he had a smoking death stick between his lips once again, the nicotine swirling through his lungs and calming his erratic thoughts.

With education at Hogwarts or whatever the school had been called, he might be indirectly presented with the opportunity to actually gain a future. Perhaps he would no longer have to live on a day-to-day basis. He couldn't deny that the thought was tempting, and he sighed heavily, smoke rising in a grey haze towards the ceiling to dissipate. He didn't want to leave 'Brutus only to be picked up by some local gang like most guys were, to then be killed in some pointless fight he didn't even know the reason for, his life and existence disappearing into nothing to leave nothing behind just like the smoke from his cig.

Harry rolled over again to put the cig in the ashtray on the windowsill, distant, green eyes watching as the grey smoke rose, reaching towards the ceiling, straining upwards to heights it would never reach. He snorted and closed his eyes. This was why he never thought of these things – it was just _too fucking depressing_.

Scooting back to feel the wall against his back, he opted for simply going along with it for now. The old woman had said that some representative from the school would show up in the middle of August to take him shopping school supplies in some alley, so he would wait until then and see what it was all about. Once he knew more, he'd take it from there.

**I think it's a bit short, but it works as an intro and I can promise that the next chapter is longer :) I had a hard time deciding where to put a break between the two, though…**  
**I hope you enjoyed it – tell me what you think! :D**


	2. Chapter 2

**As I went over the chapter again, I realized that this might be a good place to remind you that this story is M-rated for a reason… ^^'**

**On another note, I have long since realized that proofreading your own work must be among the most boring things in the world, so I apologize beforehand if I have missed any errors. I have convinced myself that I found few errors when correcting the chapter because I made fewer errors, and not because I've gotten worse at proofreading… O,o**

Little Whinging was a calm, quiet residential area where identical brick houses lined the streets, surrounded by their hedges of garden walls with green, carefully mowed lawns. It was a sleepy place, where wives gossiped and husbands washed their cars, where nothing really happened. The lack of activity had driven many excitement-seeking youths to flee to central London to escape the tranquility. Harry, however, did not mind the lack of excitement – if fact, he cherished it, as it granted him the opportunity to relax during the summer holidays. No matter how safe his position was at 'Brutus, it was still not a place where you could relax and let your guard down, so Harry always looked forward to returning to the calm of Privet Drive nr. 4, if not the other residents.

The only problem plaguing the streets of Little Whinging was Dudley's gang of spoiled kids with too much free time and too little brains who enjoyed bullying others in order to make themselves feel better. For years, Harry had been the target of their bullying as they had spent many hours _Harry hunting_, but when Harry had returned from 'Brutus one summer, aged 13, things had changed drastically. That wasn't the only thing that had changed during that summer; Vernon and Petunia had changed the way they treated Harry, as well, and he had been given Dudley's second bedroom once he'd made clear that he would no longer live in the cupboard under the stairs. It really should not have come as a surprise to them that Harry would change and consequentially bring changes to their home – they were the ones who'd placed him at 'Brutus, after all, incorrectly assuming that the institute would beat Harry into pliant normality.

Their mistake, really.

The corner of Harry's mouth twitched upwards in remembrance as he took a drag of his cigarette, his back against the wall as he sat on the grass, the open kitchen doors just to his side, the murmur of the TV audible from the inside. The hot summer sun was beating down on Little Whinging, so Harry had taken cover in the shadows behind the house, his wife beater clinging to his chest and sweat prickling on his forehead. School had let out about two months ago, so the summer holidays were in full swing. He'd turned 16 a week ago, but the occasion hadn't been celebrated – he doubted the Dursleys even remembered when his birthday was.

Everything was as usual, just the way summers at Privet Drive tended to be. Everything was normal, so normal it seemed unreal that some old woman would have come to 'Brutus to tell him about magic. Had it really happened, or had it only been part of some drug-induced dream caused by the joint he smoked later the same day? Harry snorted and shook his head, inhaling more of the poisonous smoke. Magic? How ridiculous – but then again, if not magic, then how did you explain what he was able to do?

He blew out a thin stream of smoke as he heard the doorbell sound from inside the house and the heavy steps of his uncle as the man rose from the couch to get the door. Leaning his head back against the bricks, he lazily watched the blue shy and the fluffy, white clouds gliding past, teasingly avoiding the sun. Damn, it was hot. The cigarette finished, he stomped it out in the dirt and got up to go over to the garden shed in the corner of the lawn where there was a tap connected to a hose to water the flowerbeds with. Deciding to put it to good use, Harry turned the hose towards himself and turned the tap, cool water spraying his face. Raising the hose, he poured water over himself, flattening his black hair to his skull as water ran in rivulets down his body, plastering the wife beater to his torso.

"_Harry_!" Vernon shouted from inside the house, making Harry frown. Who could it be at the door that wished to see him?

"At the back!" he shouted back, unwilling to relinquish the newfound source of defense against the summer heat. He was curious, however – whoever would come visit him?

"Hey, P!"

The shout made Harry freeze before he slowly turned around, his hand going out to turn off the water even as his gaze was locked onto the man coming towards him, tall with a strong built and broad shoulders, his way of moving expressing his confidence.

"What are you doing here, Stan?" Harry asked, too surprised to hold back his initial reaction.

"Ain't ya' happy to see me, Pea?" Stan answered, obviously thinking that he would be.

"I just… wasn't expecting you…" Harry replied slowly, well aware that the truth would not sit well with the man. In truth, Harry had expected to never see Stan again when the man left 'Brutus about a year ago, and he hadn't missed him. "It's been a year, Stan."

"I know, Pea. I'll make up for it – promise," Stan said with a grin, one hand reaching out to grab Harry's bicep and pull him closer while the other hand grabbed his black hair to pull his head back, eager lips sealing over Harry's. It was quick, sloppy and completely lacking in romance, just like it had always been.

"Where's your room?" Stan asked against his lips, finally pulling back for air.

Harry hesitated for only a moment, completely disinterested in getting fucked by the other again but too curious as to why he'd come here, to Little Whinging, to decline. It wasn't as if Stan was visiting him only for the sex, for he was sure to be able to get a woman easily, handsome as he was and with a knack for making a place for himself wherever he went. No, there had to be another reason for his visit, and Harry wanted to know what that was.

Instead of answering, he nodded and led the way back to the house, Stan's hand grabbing his ass as they went through the kitchen towards the stairs. Dudley stood in the doorway to the living room, looking every bit the fat little pig he was as the TV babbled behind him. His eyes were wide as he stared at Stan, full of admiration as he no doubt though he saw someone worthy of respect, an all too common reaction that people tended to have when first introduced to Stan. It was for that very reason that Harry had identified Stan as someone it would be beneficial to know and had, consequentially, given himself to him at the age of 13 in exchange for protection. As time had gone by, Harry had climbed the ranks from being Stan's little whore to being his right hand man, and had discovered that there was little behind the surface and that the older man lived on his exterior alone, so their agreement had never grown to become more than a mutually beneficial agreement, which was why Harry was so confounded as to why Stan had suddenly shown up again.

Leaving Dudley behind, they went up the stairs and into the smallest bedroom of the house, the room bare and impersonal with only a rickety desk, a closet where one door could not be closed fully and a bed with a thin, lumpy mattress. Still, it was Harry's room, a room he didn't have to share with anyone where he didn't have to worry about having his things stolen if he left them behind.

The door clicked shut behind them and Harry turned around to ask Stan why he was there, but the man grabbed him by his shoulders, turned him around and pushed him up against the door before he could voice his question, a mouth over his efficiently silencing him. When Stan pressed his muscular body against Harry's slighter frame, the reason for his hurry became apparent.

"Oh, Pea, you make me so horny," Stan mumbled, his lips moving to Harry's neck as the teen obediently turned his head to the side to grant better access. "I can't believe you, just standin' there, all wet like that. Shit, I really need to _fuck you_ _right now_."

With that, he fumbled the button of Harry's loose jeans open and showed his hand down his pants, seeking out and grabbing Harry's disinterested member.

"Shit, Stan, just-" Harry protested but was cut short by a quick inhalation when Stan started stroking him with quick, hard motions to get a response. Harry tensed his jaw to keep any sounds from escaping and let his head fall back against the door as he felt himself hardening, his body long since accustomed to Stan's treatment. His breathing quickened and is chest heaved as Stan smirked against his neck.

"You're so good to me, Pea, so fucking sexy. Just wanna take you in the ass until you scream."

Harry scowled halfheartedly at him, but his frown deepened when he heard the creak of the stairs and muffled steps approaching his bedroom door, the very same door he was now pressed against. He grabbed Stan's wrist to still his hand and put his other hand over his mouth to silence him as he listened. He could not, however, hear the steps walk away, and after a while, a floorboard just outside the door groaned. Making a qualified guess, he turned his face to the door.

"You ain't gonna be able to join on that side of the door, Dudley," he said loudly, making sure that his voice would carry.

Sure enough, a startled, pig-like squeak sounded from the other side of the door, followed by heavy steps thumping down the stairs. Stan laughed and removed Harry's hand from his mouth, his hand continuing its ministrations on Harry's growing need.

"Imagine his face if he saw how sexy you look when you come," Stan chuckled, his free hand pulling down the zipper.

"Fuck, that's just gross," Harry complained and made a face as Stan's free hand wandered around him to his backside to dip into his jeans and boxers. Two dry fingers were pushed into his ass, and Harry hissed at the pain, his back aching off the door as he instinctively tried to move away from the invading digits.

"Shit, Stan, slow down!" he exclaimed. "I haven't done this shit since you fucking left."

"Agh, _so tight_, did you wait for me to come back to take you, Pea?"

The third finger was soon added and Harry hissed in pain again, realizing that Stan had no intention of waiting until Harry was actually ready. Just as expected, the fingers withdrew soon thereafter, and Stan pulled down Harry's jeans with one hand while the other unzipped his own jeans, seemingly intent on taking Harry against the door.

"Fuck no!" Harry disagreed angrily. "At least do it on the fucking bed!"

Stan groused a bit, as if inconvenienced by Harry's request, but then he pushed the teen onto the bed, face in the pillow and ass in the air, hands grabbing his hips. The fuck was quick and, to Harry, completely without enjoyment, grunts escaping him with Stan's every forceful thrust. When he was done, he collapsed onto Harry, knocking the air out of his lungs with his heavy weight and uncaring for Harry's discomfort as he stayed inside of him.

Nothing had changed.

"God, I've missed this," Stan sighed contentedly, his warm breath washing over Harry's sweaty neck.

Harry didn't answer – he saw no reason to tell the other that he didn't agree. He did, however, want to know why he'd just put up with acting as the good little whore again.

"I doubt you missed it enough to come here only to get to fuck me again," he intoned, letting the question remain unvoiced.

"You'd just know, Pea. Women are such a fucking bother," Stan answered, confirming Harry's earlier suspicion and, irrationally, making him feel used even though he'd known all along that there was nothing to it. In spite of his noncommittal answer, Stan did roll off and slipped out of Harry, making him wince in discomfort.

"I'm a man now, Pea," Stan stated as he sat up and took off his t-shirt to bare his back and show the tattoo of a black, poised snake bearing its venomous fangs. "I joined the Black Vipers, and now I've got my own place and a car."

Harry watched him silently, passively, while quietly wondering if Stan had earned so much money he could afford it or if theft and illegal means played into his success. He strongly suspected that the latter applied in this case.

"And when you're done with 'Brutus, you're gonna join me," Stan continued, making it sound like a statement, obviously taking Harry's agreement for granted.

Green eyes narrowed as Harry frowned. The Vipers was the biggest gang around, to a large extent consisting of young men wanting to fight and seeking to make a name for themselves. For most guys at 'Brutus, becoming a Viper was the most appealing future available as there weren't many opportunities for youths with their kind of background – 'Brutus didn't exactly mold them into law-abiding citizens aiming to contribute to society. A little more than two months ago, Harry, too, would have agreed that joining the Vipers was his best shot, but now he wasn't too sure. The old woman had presented him with another option, an option he still wasn't fully informed of and knew very little about, but his unwillingness to become another anonymous drugged up body in the ditch made him think that even the unknown option was better than that of joining the Vipers. Not to mention the fact that Stan was the one to invite him, which meant that he would have to return to being Stan's little bitch at least for a time should he join, and that was more than enough to assure him that becoming a Viper was not an option.

"No."

The word was spoken calmly, but it held all the strength and determination a monosyllable could possibly hold. Stan stared at him, muddy brown eyes showing anger and disbelief as if he was unable to understand that someone who was supposed to be his could defy him. He threw him shirt to the ground with an aggressive motion supposed to show his strength, but Harry remained undeterred as the considerably bigger man advanced on him.

"The fuck do you think you're gonna do with your life, huh?" Stan growled and grabbed Harry's shoulder in a bruising grip. "You think you're fucking special or something?!"

"Oh, I am – and you know it!" Harry answered, his magic building behind him as he grew angry.

"Quit that freakish shit, you can't hurt me with it anyway! You need me to protect you – that's why _I'm_ the one fucking _you_ and not the other way around!"

"Get out," Harry snarled, his whole frame shaking with rage.

"Yeah, as if," Stan answered mockingly. "I'm'a fuck you again just to show you your place, you little bitch."

Harry's magic whipped out and slapped Stan's hand off of Harry's shoulder, making him stumble back in shock. Harry got up from the bed, uncaring of the fact that he was pretty much naked, and followed him for each step he took backwards, his magic spreading out behind him, heavy, potent and dangerous.

"Get out and don't ever come back. If I see you again, I'm'a fucking _kill you_," Harry threatened, and in that moment, he truly meant every word of it, his magic ready to do his bidding should he wish.

Stan, now trembling with fear, face pale and eyes wide, snatched his shirt from the floor and made a mad dash for the door which he threw open, his rushed steps thumping down the stairs and the door slamming open as he left. Once Harry heard the growl of an engine start up followed by the screech of tires, he squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists and he concentrated on taking deep, calming breaths. His magic was slowly dissipating behind him, seeping into his body as it disappeared without a trace. It left him feeling weary, his shoulders slumping as he slunk out of his room and into the bathroom next door. Even after several years, he felt dirty and used and craved a shower in an attempt to clean himself, even though he'd learnt long ago that the water could never cleanse him and that the feeling of being dirty was something he simply had to accept.

As he turned the water on hot, he thought that the whole thing with Hogwarts had better be real.

* * *

With a crack, Professor Minerva McGonagall appeared in a shadowed, narrow alleyway between a couple of houses, her sharp eyes moving to orient herself before she exited the alley. A quick glance at the road signs revealed that she was, indeed, at Wisteria Walk, her modest heels clicking against the asphalt as she strode to a crossroads and turned down Privet Drive. Soon, she stood facing number 4, a brick building of two floors looking much like every other house in the area, with a green lawn and a driveway where a recently washed car was parked. Minerva had never held anything against muggles, but there was something about the house that was just so… _muggle_, for lack of a better word.

Walking up to the door, she rapped the dark painted hardwood while she tried to forget all the negative impressions she had gained of the Dursley family all those years ago when they had left Harry in the care of the muggles. They could have changed, after all. 15 years had passed since she had last seen the Dursleys, and a lot could change in that time. Then again, the fact that Harry had been placed at St. Brutus Institute was not speaking in their favour.

Before she could successfully convince herself that she should hold no prejudice against the family living in the house, the door was opened to reveal a man too well-fed for his own good, his pudgy face red and his knees likely to give in under his enormous weight. Looking like he did could simply not be healthy.

"Yes?" he asked bluntly, his eyes narrowed as he looked at her guardedly, her prim outfit no doubt making her look like some kind of official.

"Mr. Dursley, I presume? My name is Minerva McGonagall, and I wonder if Harry Potter is home?" she asked, deliberately not mentioning magic or why she wished to speak to Harry.

"Harry? What's the boy done now?" Mr. Dursley asked rather rudely, his face reddening further as he frowned.

"Oh, no, he hasn't done anything whatsoever," Minerva quickly assured, wondering about the history shared between Harry and his uncle that caused the man to jump to such a conclusion. "I am here in regards to his continued education. Now, where is young Mr. Potter?"

Small, pale eyes peered out at her shrewdly from deep within his meaty face, and then he turned his head towards the stairs and bellowed: "HARRY!"

Minerva barely refrained from filching back at the shout, her lips thinning disapprovingly as she abandoned all hope of ever finding Mr. Durlsey to be pleasant.

A door opened at the top of the stairs and Harry stepped out onto the landing, wearing worn jeans that hung inappropriately low on his hips and a white, loose-fitting tank top, his mess of black hair obviously not familiar with anything even similar to a brush or comb. Even from her position at the foot of the stairs, Minerva could smell the cigarette smoke on him. The boy really needed to clean up his appearance a bit, but he would surely look handsome in Hogwarts robes. As soon as his green gaze fell on Minerva, his eyes widened in surprise before relief washed over his features, a most unexpected reaction.

"Good day, Mr. Potter," Minerva greeted him as he descended the stairs. "Did I not inform you that a representative from the school would be sent to help you purchase your school supplies?"

"What school supplies?" Mr. Dursley demanded before Harry could answer her question, and Minerva turned to the muggle with a raised brow and a disapproving gaze.

"Mr. Potter will, as of this autumn, be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Mr. Dursley. I thought your nephew would have enlightened you of this fact?"

Harry snorted derisively in answer while Mr. Dursley's face attained an unhealthily dark hue of red. His jaw worked furiously as he chewed uselessly, seemingly unable to form coherent utterances.

"Stuff it, Vernon," Harry said coldly before the man could gather himself enough to actually say something. Minerva's eyes widened slightly in disbelief as she had never heard a youth speak to his guarding in such a disrespectful way. "You'll get rid of me, so you've got nothing to complain about."

"I won't be paying for some freakish, good-for-nothing nonsense!" Mr. Dursley ground out furiously.

"No, you won't," Harry agreed, anger colouring his voice.

Minerva watched in surprise as Mr. Dursley unexpectedly flinched back, his face paling as fear flickered in his eyes. Harry, meanwhile, closed his eyes and clenched his fists as he took deep, calming breaths, apparently attempting to reign in his temper. When he opened his eyes again and turned to Minerva, the anger was gone, replaced by guarded distrust.

"We goin', or what?"

"Yes, of course," Minerva replied smoothly, and Harry stepped past her to open the door and leave the house, the elderly woman following him as they walked down the street.

"Where to?"

"To Diagon Alley, Mr. Potter. Please do hold on," Minerva instructed and extended her arm to Harry to take, which the teen reluctantly did. She made sure that there was no one around to see them and gave him a reassuring smile that was returned with suspicion, then she twirled in place and they disappeared from the warm muggle street with a crack.

They reappeared in the shabby, dim interior of the Leaky Cauldron, a few patrons turning around to see who had arrived. Harry stumbled unsteadily by her side, unbalanced and winded after the apparition, his green gaze flickering around the bar, eyes wide in shock. Minerva kindly reached out to steady him with a hand on his shoulder, making him whirl around to stare at her accusingly.

"What _the hell _was that?" he demanded angrily.

"I would appreciate it if you refrained from swearing, Mr. Potter," she said sternly, and did not answer until she had gained a miniscule nod from the teen. "That was side-along apparition, a magical means of instant transportation." Harry stared at her for a moment, seemingly having a hard time grasping this new information. Then he shook his head dismissively and said with feeling: "Whatever, just don't _ever_ do it again."

Minerva smiled, silently acknowledging that it might have been a good idea to warn the youth beforehand while wondering if he would find the Night Buss preferable. Compared to muggle transportation, the magical kind could be quite uncomfortable, after all.

"Shall we?" she suggested, not leaving much room for question as she led the way through the bar, greeting Tom on the way out before exiting into the cramped backyard.

The elderly woman glanced over her shoulder at the teen, his green eyes narrowed as his gaze flickered suspiciously about the confined space. The bar had not brought much reaction from him, something that could be explained by his shock of experiencing apparition for the first time, and she wondered how he would react to Diagon Alley. Through the years, the Deputy Headmistress had aided a few muggleborns and orphans with their first entrance into the magical world, and she had to admit that she found their expressions of awe and wonder quite enjoyable to watch. Harry, however, was not an eleven-year-old, so she was quietly wondering how his age would affect his reaction.

Raising her wand to tap the brick wall, she paused as she remembered that she was still dressed as a muggle, and with a swipe of her wand, she transfigured the strict clothes into her usual robes of black, green and tartan designs, the pointed hat coming to rest on her head as she noted the widening of Harry's eyes. She smiled as she tapped the bricks in a well-known sequence and watched Harry's shifting expression as the bricks moved aside to reveal the bustling street of Diagon Alley.

At first, Harry's green eyes widened in surprise at the abundance of colours and sounds, a customary reaction seeing as the sight of the twisting, cobbled street filled with people dressed in wizarding robes could be quite overwhelming for one who had never seen it before. The exhilarated smile that often followed never came however, as the teen stood paralyzed, his eyes narrowing as his gaze darted around, taking in the crowd and the shops with a guarded expression. Perhaps large crowds did not agree with him?

"Come along, Mr. Potter," Minerva urged him gently, hoping that he would grow to like to famous alley once the shock had passed. As she walked through the brick arch, he seemed to hesitate before following her, and he made sure to stay close to her as they walked through the mass of people, his eyes darting around and his slight frame flinching away as soon as someone came too close for his liking. His distrustful gaze and scowling countenance seemed to suspect every person they walked by of being a thief and criminal who would cause him bodily harm, and his open distrustfulness made her grow weary. How _ever_ would he react to the liveliness of the Great Hall during meals once he was at Hogwarts?

"There you have Flourish and Blotts, the book store," she pointed out, trying to distract him with useful information. "We have yet to settle a curriculum for you, but once we have done so, you will most likely purchase your course books there. In the building over there, you can see the apothecary where you will purchase your potions ingredients in the future, but as is the case with the books, we will not buy anything there today – unless you are interested in visiting the shop for personal reasons?"

She did not truly expect the guarded teen to reply as he did not seem to listen, but he was quick to shake his head. She nodded in acceptance to his wordless answer and led him to Gringotts, his eyes widening once more when he noticed the white marble building towering over them, imposing as it dwarfed all the other buildings of the alley. Perhaps the cool interior of the bank would agree more with him seeing as it was often sparsely populated? She could not imagine that he would fit in, however, what with his distinctly muggle clothing and unruly appearance. Hopefully, he would find the ride down to the vault enjoyable, though, as muggleborns tended to do.

"Gringotts Bank, Mr. Potter. Our first stop for the day," she informed him as they mounted the steep stairs to the bronze doors guarded by goblins.

She smiled, relieved that some of the curiosity of youth seemed to remain in the teen when she noticed that his gaze lingered on the goblins, his expression startled and wondering.

"They are goblins," she informed him quietly as they stepped into the great hall lined by tellers behind high counters. "Always be courteous to goblins, Mr. Potter."

His gaze soon moved to the little heaps of coins and gems that some of the goblins were counting, and she saw a glint in his eyes that was not very promising for his future. She could not blame him, however, and felt her stern expression soften. He had obviously not grown up with much, as his clothes were testament of, but it warmed her heart to know that at least that hardship was soon to be a thing of the past.

"Good day, Mr. Griphook," she greeted one of the tellers politely, his shrewd look and unpleasant sneer to be expected and long since unable to affect her in any way. "Mr. Potter here would like to access his vault."

"And does Mr. Potter have his key?" the goblin asked, its gaze turning to Harry with a greedy glint in his gaze, Mr. Griphook no doubt realizing the benefits of opening and activating the vault again after many years of dormant inactivity.

She produced the small, golden key from her pocket and gave it to the goblin, catching Harry's suspicious look from the corner of her eye as the teen no doubt wondered why she had the key to a vault that rightfully belonged to him. When they left, she would made sure that he had the key and understood that she had no interest in the admittedly considerable monetary capital that was known to reside in the Potter vault.

The trip down to the vault was just as bad as it had always been, and Minerva could not refrain from gripping the edge of the cart as her old heart beat far too wildly for her advanced age. When she saw that Harry had a smile on his face and a lively spark in his eyes, his messy hair wind-swept, she could not find it in herself to complain. The boy needed some fun as he seemed to have been largely depraved of it during his previous years, something that would most likely change when he came to Hogwarts. She would keep an eye on him, as was only prudent seeing as he was likely to be sorted into her house – in spite of his distrustful behavior, there was little doubt in her mind that there was a brave, strong Gryffindor under his guardedness.

"Vault 687, the Potter Vault," Griphook announced as he unlocked and opened the massive door, yellow light from his lantern shining into the dark space and reflecting back from the metallic surfaces of mountains of coins, gold, silver and bronze winking back, glimmering and shining before Harry's wide eyes and stunned expression. Minerva could only imagine what was moving in his head at that moment, and silently hoped that the money would not corrupt the boy.

"This is what your parents left behind for you, Mr. Potter," Minerva said, seemingly snapping him out of a trance.

She expected him to react to the mention of his parents, perhaps ask her about them or show some kind of emotional reaction, but just as had been the case when she had met him at St. Brutus, no reaction was given. Instead, she watched quietly from beside Griphook as he stepped into the vault and squatted down to simply stared for a moment, disbelief marrying his features as if he was unwilling to believe what his eyes were seeing. Then, to her surprise, he turned to look at her, his green gaze meeting her own, doubting and questioning. She wasn't sure what he was searching for but tried to show him how sincere she was in her care for him, and he seemed to find what he had wanted for he soon turned back to the money. He reached out towards the nearest pile of coins and scooped up a handful, weighting them in his hand before bringing them up to his face for closer inspection.

"What are these?" he asked, distrust and suspicion immediately lacing his voice when he did not recognize the currency.

"New to the magical world, Mr. Potter?" Mr. Griphook asked from her side, and Minerva pinched her lips in disapproval at the slight mockery behind the words. Harry, too, seemed to have picked up on it, for he turned towards the goblin with a heated glare.

"This is the wizarding currency, Mr. Potter," she cut in, intending to prevent an argument that the boy would no doubt lose and might come to regret in the future as goblins were known to be rancorous once slighted. "The gold ones are Galleons, the silver ones Sickles and the bronze Knuts. There are 17 Sickles to a Galleon and 29 Knuts make up a Sickle."

"And how much is it in pounds?" Harry immediately asked, his gaze returning to the coins before him as Minerva quietly complimented him on his quick thinking.

"1 Galleon equals about 5 British pounds," Mr. Griphook answered expertly.

The teen stared at the mountain of gold before him, his gaze disbelieving but his face cautiously hopeful when he realized how much money there actually was in the vault.

"A real shame, it is, that all these riches of the Potters' have been untouched for so long," Mr. Griphook said and Harry turned to him sharply while Minerva frowned at the goblin's obvious greed.

"Yeah, well, I'm the only one who gets to touch them," Harry snapped in answer, protective of his sudden wealth.

He turned back to the money again, frowned and hesitated for a moment before turning to Minerva in question.

"How much will I need?" he asked, and Minerva smiled understandingly.

She advised him on a sum that would cover the day's expanses and suggested that he take an additional, smaller sum to convert into muggle currency, should he need anything. She did not mention his clothes, but he seemed to understand all the same, and when they left, the teen had the advised money in one pocket and the vault key in the other, his hands showed down in his pockets as if to assure himself that the things were still there and had not been taken from him.

Their next stop was Ollivanders, and Harry looked around the cluttered, dim shop curiously, a certain eagerness to his expression when he noted that Mr. Ollivander was not to be seen. Minderva could only hope that the boy was not an habitual thief and while she did not doubt that his harsh upbringing had caused him to break the law, she expected such behavior to come to an end once he entered Hogwarts, especially since his inherited money meant that he no longer lacked the money needed to buy what he wanted.

"This is where we will purchase your wand, Mr. Potter," she informed him as she wondered where Ollivander was off to. Knowing the man, he was likely hiding somewhere, watching them at this very moment.

"My wand?" he asked skeptically and frowned at her. "I need one?"

"Oh yes, you do," Minerva answered. As she had grown up with magic, she was sometimes startled by some of the things that muggleborns could question, things that she herself had always taken for granted even though she knew that she should know better. She was not a complete stranger to the muggle way of living, after all, even if she had never practiced it herself. "It is your wand that channels your magic, enabling you to control it. Wandless magic is exceedingly difficult and only the most powerful and accomplished witches and wizards have been known to fully master it."

Harry's from remained, however, and he looked decidedly skeptical as if he did not believe her, but Mr. Ollivander decided to make his entrance at that moment, appearing out of the shadows of a corner and startling Harry. Minerva, who had learnt to expect the man's eccentric behavior, simply sighed inaudibly at the silly antics.

"Ah, Mr. Potter!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "I'd expected to see you some years ago, of course, but I am happy to have you all the same."

"What?" Harry asked, clearly confused.

"Good day, Mr. Ollivander," Minerva greeted the man, and he turned to her with recognition. Of course; the man never seemed to forget anything, after all.

"Professor McGonagall," he answered. "Nine and a half inches, made of fir with a core of dragon heartstring, I remember. Very suitable for transfiguration, as you have proven. It functions properly, I hope?"

"Certainly, Mr. Ollivander, but I do believe we are here for Mr. Potter's wand," she pointed out politely, seeing Harry's increasingly confused look as the poor boy could not understand a word of what they were saying.

"Oh, yes, yes of course," Ollivander mumbled, and Harry's eyes narrowed distrustingly. "Well then, which hand is your wand hand, Mr. Potter?"

"My what?"

"Your wand hand, Mr. Potter. The one in which you hold your hand, the one with which you write."

"I'm right-handed," he answered with a scowl, clearly not bearing the patience to tolerate Mr. Ollivander's queer ways.

"Good, very good. Measurements, now," Ollivander said while nodding to himself and waving a hand vaguely in the direction of the counter, a measuring tape shooting up from the countertop and zooming over to Harry where it proceeded to twirl around him, now and then taking a measurement or wrapping itself around some random part of his body while the old man went behind the counter to choose among the many boxes. Harry scowled at the tape as it measured his nose to then wrap tightly around his head, making him bat angrily at it to make it go away. Having pity on him, Minerva waved her wand at the tape to subdue it, causing it to fall harmlessly to the floor. When Harry turned to her with reluctant gratitude, she simply smiled understandingly in answer. She, too, had felt a certain dislike for the measuring tape when she had bought her wand all those years ago.

A moment later, Ollivander returned to them with his arms full of boxes, which he placed at the countertop with the vague instruction for Harry to "try them". Minerva sighed patiently. Really, could the man not be a bit more precise in his directions?

"All you need to do is take a wand and give it a swish, Mr. Potter," she explained to him, and he nodded and proceeded to do just that.

The first wand was quickly taken from his hand, however, to be replaced with another one.

"No, no, absolutely not! Another one, Mr. Potter!"

Finding a wand for Harry appeared difficult, and Minerva was surprised at how long it took. Never before had she experienced the search for the proper wand to be so time-consuming, and even though she knew the immense importance of the procedure, she could not help growing impatient. She had hoped to finish their errands before lunch, after all, so that she might treat Harry for lunch at the Leaky Cauldron.

A lamp exploded and a vase of flowers caught on fire as the pile of discarded wands grew and grew, and Harry looked more and more dejected and reluctant, to the point where Minerva halfheartedly expected him to simply leave without a wand.

The professor took the opportunity to regard Harry quietly, and she had to admit that while he looked quite a bit like his parents, he was nothing like she had expected. Guarded and distrustful with a negative outlook on life, he was far from the happy youth she had thought she would find, and the thought that those muggles were to blame for it angered her. He seemed to be used to taking care of himself, never confiding in or accepting support from another, which lead her to wonder how he would interact with the student at Hogwarts, many who had enjoyed happy and comfortable upbringings. Would he be able to relate to them at all, or was he simply too different? Suddenly, she wasn't so sure that he would become one of her lions, but she would try to look out for him all the same.

"Ah! Now I've got it!" Ollivander suddenly exclaimed, startling Harry so that he nearly dropped the wand he was holding. The man hurried in behind the counter and searched among the boxes, long, thin fingers fluttering before him as he mumbled: "Yes, I am sure. This one must be it, here…"

He returned with a wand in a box, neither wand nor box looking all that different from any of the other on the counter, but nothing exploded when Harry picked up the wand and a shiver made the teen grip the handle more firmly.

"Yes, yes, definitely," Ollivander stated with an air of accomplishment. "A tricky wand, tricky indeed; tricky combination, holly and phoenix feather. Difficult to bond with due to the phoenix core, you see, and hard to win its allegiance, but perhaps that's why it fits you, hm?"

The words of insight only confirmed Minerva's earlier speculations, and Harry glared sharply at the man, his grip on the wand tightening in agitation as he was clearly upset by the man's unexplainable ability to know the strangest of things.

"Thank you for your services, Mr. Ollivander," she said. "We do have more to accomplish before lunch, however, so perhaps if Mr. Potter could pay?"

"Yes, of course," Ollivander agreed and Harry reluctantly parted with his galleons. The wand went into its box and the teen got a little brown paper bag to carry it in, and then they were out on the street again.

Minerva led the way through the crows in a brisk pace, glad that the matter was over with so that they could proceed to their next errand.

"Marianne!" Minerva greeted her old friend from their shared Hogwarts years warmly as they stepped into Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, the bell chiming overhead.

"Minerva! It's been long, too long," the stout seamstress answered heartedly, spreading her arms for a quick hug. "Now who is this handsome young man in need of clothes that you have brought with you?" Marianne Malkin exclaimed upon spotting Harry over Minerva's shoulder, her keen eye immediately spotting the state of the teen's clothes.

"This is young Harry," Minerva introduced, waving Harry forward as he had been standing back, eyeing them wearily. "He needs his Hogwarts uniform along with the cloak, gloves and hat."

"A student?" her friend quickly concluded and, eager for some gossip, the woman said: "I have never seen him here before, of that I am sure."

"Well, I doubt he has ever been here before," Minerva answered, skirting around the unvoiced question and nipping the discussion in the bud. "Now where do you want him?"

"Ah, on the stool over there, by the mirrors will be fine. I'm afraid Agnes will have to take care of it, though," she excused herself as she ushered Minerva and Harry towards a low stool behind a foldable screen.

Agnes proved to be a young woman in her early twenties who Minerva recognized as a previous student, and she bobbed politely to her former professor before turning to Harry, wand in one hand and measuring tape in the other which made Harry scowl. Minerva watched quietly as the young assistant took the teen's measurements, and she noted with a raised brow how Harry seemed to tense as soon as the young woman stepped close, his eyes narrowing as he followed her every move while reluctantly following her instructions to raise his arms or turn around. Minerva frowned, unsure of what might be the cause for his strange reaction. He had, admittedly, been distrustful the whole day, but this was something different. When she realized the cause, she smiled in amusement, and her guess was soon confirmed when Agnes left to gather the fabric needed and Harry's shoulders slumped in relief.

"She is a woman, you know," she could not refrain from teasing, and Harry's scowl snapped towards her as he drew his brows together. "The way you look at her made me think she was a prowling lioness or something the like."

Harry mumbled something sourly, and Minerva chuckled as the assistant returned with black, grey and white fabric in her arms, causing Harry to freeze up again. It was only understandable, Minerva decided with a kind smile, as the teen had no doubt had limited experience with women his own age. He had grown up in an all-boys school, after all, so it was only logical that he would be unsure of how to act around a young woman. Agnes was ever professional in her manner as she carried out her duty with the hard-working attitude of someone who held pride in her work, and the clothes were sewn, wrapped and packed for them before long, a paper bag with _Madam Malkin's _written over it testament to their visit. Anxious to leave, Harry sighed in relief as soon as they were back on the street, and Minerva smiled amusedly as she led the way.

"Would you like to buy a pet, Mr. Potter?" she asked as the Magical Menagerie came into view, and Harry gave her a confused look.

"What?"

"Students at Hogwarts are allowed to bring pets in the form of toads, cats and owls with them," she explained and gestured towards the shop, a group of younger children she recognized as Hufflepuffs awing over the puffskeins displayed in the window. "Owls are generally recommended as they can be of use by carrying mail. An animal can also be a companion of sorts. Would you like to take a look?"

She slowed their pace a bit as Harry gazed at the shop, his expression curious when it suddenly hardened and he shook his head decidedly. Minerva's brows shot up in surprise at the unexpected answer; or rather, the answer itself was not as surprising as the way he had answered, and she could but wonder what the cause was.

A quick trip to the cauldron chop for a cauldron along with required paraphernalia and a visit to Scribbulus Writing Implements for quills, ink and parchment, and then they were finally done.

Having forgotten how exhausting it would be to shop school supplies, Minerva sighed in relief as she sank into a chair at the Leaky Cauldron by a table of Harry's choice where the teen could sit close to the wall, a choice that did not surprise the old woman much after a day of observing the boy. A waitress came over to take their orders, and once again, Harry tenses at the proximity of the young woman.

"You do realize that you will have to get used to interacting with women, I hope?" Minerva pointed out once the waiter had left.

Harry simply shrugged noncommittally and picket up the knife, the cutlery twirling effortlessly between his fingers as sharp green eyes swept over the bar, regarding the other patrons watchfully.

"Are you looking forward to Hogwarts in a couple of weeks, then?" Minerva asked, not to be deterred in her attempt to strike up some easy conversation.

The teen's attention reluctantly moved to her, and he gave a reluctant nod in answer.

One of the patrons rose from his seat a few tables away, his unsteadiness and flushed face telling of his drunkenness in spite of the hour, and Minerva pinched her lips in disapproval before returning her attention to the young man before her.

"It must seem pretty exciting to learn about magic?" she prompted, but the teen only shrugged after a moment of hesitation. It appeared he was not much of a talker, the young Potter.

"Sh'_loh_," the drunkard slurred unintelligibly, having staggered over to their table. Minerva frowned and was about to call for Tom when the inebriated man stumbled over his own feet and tumbled into Harry's chair, a hand gripping the teen's shoulder in an attempt to steady himself. The teen moved too quickly and suddenly for Minerva to catch what he actually did, but then the chair clattered onto the floor and Harry was standing behind the man, keeping the drunkard's arm bent up behind his back. The knife he'd been playing with glinted sharply where it was poised threateningly against the man's throat, Harry's grip steady and sure, his expression hard without the slightest hint of hesitation.

The entire bar had fallen silent, every pair of eyes focused on the teen and the drunkard, shock written on the faces of the other patrons. Minerva swallowed to gather herself, her aged heart beating wildly in her chest as she realized the true extent of what St. Brutus had done to Harry Potter. She pushed back her chair and rose slowly, making sure not to startle the teen.

"Harry?" she asked softly and green eyes snapped to her. "I am quite sure the man meant no harm, so there is really no need to scare the wits out of him and the rest of us."

Harry's gaze flickered to the man, taking in the obvious signs of intoxication, and then he abruptly released him and stepped back, a dark look on his features. The man's legs gave out under him and he scrambled away, sobered by the threat on his life. The slam of the door signaled that he had left, but he bar was just as still and all attention was upon Harry, who seemed distinctly troubled by the attention, his eyes flickering about the room, continuously returning to Minerva as he licked his lips nervously. At least the boy knew that he had done something bad, Minerva reflected tiredly and sighed.

"I'm sorry for the commotion, Tom," she said, turning to the bartender who seemed to snap out of his shock upon being addressed.

"Oh, no, professor McGonagall!" he exclaimed, rounding the bar and hurrying over to them. "Please, it is I who should apologize, letting the man inconvenience you in my establishment."

He tried an apologetic smile as he raised Harry's chair.

"Return to your meals! There's nothing more here to see!" he called to the other patrons, who were slow to avert their attention, hoping for something more exciting to happen or, perhaps, hoping to find the identity of the young man. That, Minerva hoped would not happen, as she could not even imagine how people would react to the fact that Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, had not only been found but had also threatened the life of a grown wizard before his first day in the wizarding world was over.

Tom hurried away to see what had become of their food, and Minerva watched Harry closely as the two took their seats again, the teen breathing a bit harshly and a prickle of sweat on his forehead due to the adrenaline that must be coursing through his veins after the sudden explosion of activity. His fingers were playing with the knife again, which seemed more of a nervous habit then conscious action, and Minerva's gaze was drawn to the knife which seemed… different.

"Can I see the knife, Harry?" she asked, deciding that formalities could wait in the situation.

The fingers stilled and the teen hesitated, his gaze flickering between Minerva's face and the knife before he slowly, reluctantly, handed it over to her.

As she took the knife in wrinkled hands, she noted that it was quite different, indeed. The dull cutlery in need of sharpening had gained a pointed end and a sharp edge that would easily pierce through skin and flesh, the handle remodeled to fit better in the hand. This was most definitely not the same knife, yet must be the same because it was the knife he had had at hand.

"Would you mind telling me how this happened?" she asked, looking Harry in the eye.

The boy looked uncomfortable and it was quite clear that he did not want to tell her, but them he shrugged and, without further probing, answered: "I changed it."

"You changed it?" Minerva asked disbelievingly, and he nodded. "You transfigured it without incantation and without using your wand?"

"Yeah," he answered, and it didn't seem like he understood how truly monumental this was. _No one_ has such control over their magic at the age of sixteen, especially not when you had no magical education whatsoever.

Minerva felt faint at the revelation, but the boy didn't seem to think that that was enough.

"I've been doing it for years."

* * *

Later that afternoon, Minerva stepped out of the fireplace and into her office at Hogwarts, her head pounding and her mind in disarray.

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, had disappeared a little over six years ago, or rather, his disappearance had been discovered a little over six years ago when the owl carrying his Hogwarts Letter had returned with the envelope unopened in its beak, unable to find the child. A visit to Harry's relative had been immediate, but they had been mysteriously unable to find the address.

At that point, true fear for the child's safety had set in, and they had begun their search. In the beginning, Dumbledore had insisted that they should keep the matter secret, but it did not take long until they went to the Minister and soon, the Ministry and their Aurors were taking part in the search. It quickly became clear, however, that they had nothing to go on, and after more than a year of desperate searching, they had to admit that they had lost the boy and had no way of finding him. Speculations had been aplenty, but no one had actually known anything of what had happened to the boy.

Until about three months ago, that was, when he had suddenly reappeared again. Minerva had gone to St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys the very next day to meet him and make sure that all was well with the boy, as well as persuade him to come to Hogwarts so that they would not lose him again.

Now, after spending almost a full day with the boy, she could safely say that he was nothing like she or any other had expected. He was uneducated and had clearly been strongly affected by his all but ideal childhood, his behavior as well as his violent reaction today attesting to that. He also appeared to be magically powerful and had, somehow, managed to learn to control his magic on his own over the past few years, something that was completely unheard of. No wand, no incantation, no education – it was simply not meant to be possible, but the boy had managed all the same.

This meant that they would have to reevaluate everything, especially how to plan his education. Originally, they had thought to place him with the first years, but she now doubted that it would be productive, at least in the more practical classes such as transfiguration and charms. Would he even be able to use a wand normally now that he was used to channel his magic freely? She did not know, and she doubted at they would gain any answers until they had in some way evaluated they boy's ability.

Turning to the fireplace again, she took a handful of floo powder and threw it into the flames, her head following when the fire had turned green and harmless.

"Headmaster's office!"

**I hope I didn't repeat "distrustful", "reluctant" and "guarded" too many times – I wanted to get the point across, but I realize I might have overdone it a bit ^^'**  
**Hope you liked it all the same! :D**


	3. Chapter 3

**When I went onto my mail the day after uploading chapter 2, I had 71 new emails – all favs, new followers and reviews from you guys! :D Thank you, this is what makes it all worth it! (insert heart here because FFN won't let me do it) **

Harry was dressed in his new, weird clothes called _robes_, which was really a hooded cloak that was open in the front to show his button-up shirt, pull-over and dress pants. It was a bloody good thing that it was open – he couldn't imagine running or fighting in some overgrown dress like the ones he'd seen some men wear when he'd been shopping with McGonagall. Along with the fact that he had bothered to actually do something with his hair for once, with the result that it looked stylishly tousled instead of plain untamable, he now looked better than he'd ever done before. He was nervous, the uncertainty twisting in his stomach, but he would never admit it even to himself as he took another drag of the cigarette between his fingers.

He had the right to be nervous, though, as he was sitting on a train on the way to something unknown, a whole new life that he knew virtually nothing about. He had arrived to the platform ridiculously early, grateful that the old woman McGonagall had told him how to get to the platform for he would never have been able to figure it out himself – whoever came up with the fucking stupid idea to walk through a bloody brick wall, anyway? The benefit of being early was the he had been pretty much the first person to show up, and so he could silently admire the deeply red train in peace before going off to hog a compartment to himself where he could seclude himself and, at least hopefully, not be disturbed by anyone. He didn't feel up to talking with some snobbish private school brats.

Now, he was sitting with his back to the wall and his legs stretched out before him on the seat, his newly acquired trunk on the floor beside him as he didn't care for the effort of lifting it up onto the overhead rack. People had started trickling onto the platform about half an hour ago, the crowd outside the window growing steadily in size, and Harry was decidedly happy that he was not out there. A few younger kids had been past his compartment and looked in through the window

curiously, but they had been easy to scare away with a look. Really, how pathetic – they wouldn't have lasted a day at 'Brutus.

As the clamor from outside grew in volume, he fished his new iPod out of his pocket, one of the things he had bought along with some real clothes as an iPod was something he had, for some reason, always wanted to have. He hadn't bothered with buying a computer, however, instead opting to "borrow" one of Dudley's to be able to download music and get it onto the iPod. Putting in the ear buds, he turned the thing on – or rather, tried to, as it gave nothing more than static and a weak flicker of the screen before it died. Harry stared at it disbelievingly – useless _shit_, it has fucking _new_, dammit! Sending an angry burst of magic through the thing to vent a bit of frustration, he sat back in surprise when the thing suddenly went on, working as it should. Had it been a fluke?

He shrugged, deciding that it didn't really matter as long as it worked, and turned the volume up high to drown out the sounds of chattering people passing by in the corridor, the beat thumping heavily in his ears. He hunted away some other people with a glare, and then the whistle sounded and the train gave a lurch. The platform packed with families waving good bye rolled out of view, and then they were on their way and Harry firmly ignored the way his stomach clenched nervously. To quell his nerves, he inhaled some more of the deadly smoke, nearly burning his fingers on the smoldering end. Cursing, he waved his stung hand and opened the window to throw the finished cig out, his hands immediately finding the pack and lighter in his pocket to light a new one.

This was all so _unreal_, like one of those things that just don't happen in real life. Then again, it was just too bloody unlikely to be something made up, and even though some people could go far just to humiliate others, this was a bit too much. The reasoning didn't help much, though, which was why he definitely didn't think about the fact that he was leaving everything he knew behind to get onto some fucking train to a school he'd only ever heard of from some old woman, where they were supposedly going to teach him magic.

Bloody mad was what he was to go along with it.

It wasn't all bad, though. He had money now, and lots of it, and he knew for a fact that he could use the converted stuff in real shops and actually buy things, because that's what he'd done. He had half expected the cashier in the first store to tell him that the pounds he handed over weren't valid or fake, but to his astonishment, it had worked. So the money, at least, was real, which was another thing he couldn't seem to wrap his mind around.

He was rich. Really, bloody, stinkin' rich. In that cave or vault or whatever, he had more money than he'd ever need, than he'd ever be able to spend. He could buy anything he wanted and would never have to work a day in his life. He was eager to use it, but at the same time oddly reluctant to deplete the amount of shiny coins in the vault. Even though there were things he wanted, things he'd always thought he'd buy should he ever have the money, he didn't want to waste his money on things he didn't need, the iPod being the only exception to that.

It was all good, though, 'cause he would never have to live off his hateful relatives again. They had never given him more than the bare minimum, giving him Dudley's hand-me-downs that were always too big even though they were several years old. Well, not anymore and never again. He'd _never_ return to that house again if he had anything to say about it, and he'd work his hardest to make sure that he would.

He let his head fall back against the wall, the music blaring and smoke rising from between his lips as he remembered the feeling of the heavy, cold coins in his hands, the golden mountain glimmering before him. Now that he finally had money of his own, he wasn't about to share. Sure, some might think he would be all charitable and wish to help those from similar backgrounds as himself, but living at 'Brutus and with the Dursleys where you had to fight in order to get anything at all sure as hell hadn't turned him into a generous person. No, this money was his, all his and _only _his, and he'd guard them to make sure that the money wasn't taken from him.

People could never be trusted, after all, which made him remember something the old woman had told him about getting a pet – a _companion_. He'd been tempted to buy one, perhaps a cat to pet that could curl up and sleep beside him. Animals were great that way, they didn't turn against you like people did, but for that exact reason, he'd said no. A pet would only be a liability that would weaken him, someone to care for apart from himself and someone who could be used against him should someone want to get to him. No, pets were for those who were naïve enough to believe that the world was in any way _safe_.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the compartment door slide open, awakening him from his thoughts. The cig went out the window and he pulled the buds from his ears just as the door was opened fully to admit two teens who seemed to be his own age, and girl and a guy. He was tall and lanky, with red hair and freckles all over his face. He seemed quite sure of himself and was probably muscular under his own robes, but he wasn't a treat to Harry who quickly discarded him in favor of the girl whose presence made him tense and uncertain as he really had no idea how to act around women. What did they want? How did they behave? How did he handle them? He could easily deduct those things about a guy, but when it came to women, he really had no idea, and that wasn't good.

This girl had frizzy, brown hair and knowing eyes moving about the compartment as she wrinkled her nose. Remembering the smell of cigarettes that no doubt filled the compartment but that he was no longer able to feel himself, Harry waved his hand absentmindedly, dissipating the smell with his magic in a practiced way as it was something he had done many times before when called to one inquiry or another at 'Brutus.

"Who are you?" he asked, grouchy that someone had decided to bother him after all. Guess it had been stupid to believe that he would be left alone for the entirety of the ride.

"Oh!" the girl exclaimed as if having forgotten herself. "My name's Hermione Granger, and this is Ronald Weasley. We're the Gryffindor Prefects of sixth year."

Harry said nothing in answer as he gave her a blank stare. What the hell was she talking about?

"Are you the new student?" she continued after a moment when it became obvious that he wasn't about to say anything.

"I guess?"

"Professor McGonagall told us to find you to welcome you to Hogwarts and answer any questions you might have," she explained with a big, beaming smile, but asked a question of her own before he'd even had a chance of opening his mouth.. "What's your name?"

"Harry," he answered, thinking it more than enough until he noticed their curious and probing looks, letting him know that they weren't going to leave him alone until he'd given them his full name. "… Potter."

To his surprise, they both gasped in surprise, their eyes widening almost comically.

"Really? You're Harry Potter?" the girl asked. Had she introduced herself as Granger?

"Yeah…" he answered slowly, weary of their reaction.

"Show us the scar, mate," the redhead, Weasley, demanded.

"What scar?"

Weasley gestured towards his forehead, and Harry's eyes narrowed. He didn't like this at all. For some reason, his name seemed to mean something to them and they did, somehow, know about his scar. He definitely had to make them explain this, so he raised his hand and stroked his black fringe aside, showing the scar on his forehead that he'd had for as long as he could remember.

The two Prefects gasped again and moved further into the compartment, closing the door and seating themselves across from Harry uninvited.

"Oh, I know all about you, of course!" Granger exclaimed excitedly, and Harry turned his narrowed gaze to her, increasingly sure that there was something very weird going on.

"You do?"

"Yes, of course!" She sounded appalled as if the very idea that she _wouldn't know_ was preposterous. "I've read every single book there is!"

"Wait, what?" Harry stopped her, unable to go along with it anymore. "What the hell are you talking about? What fucking books?"

Weasley looked rather impressed by his swearing, while Granger looked dumbfounded.

"You don't know?" she asked breathlessly. "Of course I know that you've been gone for _at least_ six years, but I always thought you would know…"

"Well, I don't, so you'd better tell me," Harry answered, not caring if he was being rude as long as someone explained to him what was going on. And what the hell had she meant with "gone"? He hadn't gone anywhere!

"But you're famous!" Weasley claimed, which was definitely news to Harry. "Did you grow up with muggles or something?"

"What the hell is a _muggle_?" Harry asked, growing more and more frustrated with the situation.

"You really don't know…" Granger breathed, and then launched headfirst into a narrative of someone called "You-Know-Who" that Harry had no idea of who it was but appeared to be a bad guy who had started a war. She then claimed that _Harry_, as a mere one-year-old, had somehow managed to defeat the evil and feared You-Know-Who and temporarily banished him, which was why he was now famous and generally known as the Boy-Who-Lived and it was "all very fascinating, especially since no one could explain it!". The whole thing was ridiculous, and Harry wondered how anyone could possibly believe in it.

Apparently, this You-Know-Who had somehow returned a couple of years later, changing his tactics completely and initiating some kind of "phrase 2" of the war. Instead of killing people left and right, Granger said that the war was now mostly political, with infiltrations and strategic murders, which meant that the war was ongoing but playing out in the shadows, so normal people had no idea of what was really going on. They knew that You-Know-Who was back and that he was doing some bad stuff, but no one knew what he was _actually_ doing, which made Harry question how they could be so sure he did anything at all.

When she was finally finished, Harry was sure that more than half an hour had passed and he found himself staring at her blankly while he turned the new information over in his head. His spontaneous reaction was that it all sounded pretty unbelievable and groundless, but he kept that to himself.

"So…" he said slowly after a moment of expectant silence as the two teens across from his waited for his reaction. Picking the first question that came to mind, he asked: "What's the guy's real name?"

"Who?" Granger asked in bewilderment, Weasley looking confused beside her.

"This guy you're calling You-Know-Who. I mean, that can't be his real name, right?"

To his surprise, they both paled and stared at him with wide eyes, fear lurking in their gazes. They glanced at each other, seemingly seeking support from one another before they turned back to Harry.

"No one ever speaks his name," Granger said, for some reason lowering her voice to a whisper.

"Yeah, mate. That's why he's called You-Know-Who," Weasley agreed.

"Really?" Harry uttered, his eyes shooting up. That was just stupid – for fuck's sake, it was just a name! "So you don't know what his name really is?"

"Um, well, we do, but…"

"Then someone must have told you, yeah?"

They nodded slowly, not liking where this was going. Harry wasn't sure why he was pushing it, but the whole thing was just so ridiculous that he just couldn't let it go.

"I guess, maybe… we could tell you? Since you need to know?" Granger mumbled hesitantly, glancing to Weasley who gave a slight nod. She gulped and took a deep breath as if to steady herself, then leaned forward and beckoned Harry closer until their noses were nearly touching.

"_Voldemort_," she breathed so quietly he could barely hear it over the noise of the train.

"Voldemort?" he repeated skeptically, causing them both to flinch. Really, this was just priceless. It was just a name, and not even that! What kind of name was _Voldemort, _anyway?

The two uninvited occupants of the compartment didn't seem up for a discussion on the matter, however, so Harry picked up another question he had asked himself.

"What about the disappearance you mentioned, then? As far as I know, I really haven't gone off anywhere, so I have no idea what you're talkin' about," he stated, the other's looking relived at the change of subject.

"They realized that you were gone six years ago when your Hogwarts Letter didn't reach you," Granger explained. Harry didn't know what a Hogwarts Letter was supposed to be, but he could guess, so he nodded for her to continue. "They couldn't find you, so people supposed that you had disappeared somehow."

"Well, I didn't go anywhere," Harry pointed out since he'd only moved between 'Brutus and Privet Drive the last years.

"Where were you, then? And why couldn't they find you?" Granger asked eagerly, leaning forward again but this time in interest.

"I lived with my relatives and went to… school," Harry answered, seeing no reason to tell them about 'Brutus.

"Your muggle relatives?" she asked happily.

"_Muggle_?"

"Non-magical people," Weasley cut in, and Granger nodded.

"I grew up with muggles, too, because I'm a muggleborn!" she exclaimed. "So I understand perfectly well how you must feel now, suddenly thrown into this amazing world of magic without knowing anything!"

Weasley snorted and said: "It's not like you didn't know anything, 'Mione. You'd _read_ about it."

Granger blushed but didn't deny it, and Harry categorized her as a bookworm. Now that he'd spent some time with her, he realized that she wasn't all that bad or difficult to handle. Ask questions and keep her talking and she'd be happy, so perhaps girls weren't all that different from guys? They were too naïve, though, these two, so _trusting_. It was annoying that they were so open about everything, not questioning him even once and just believing everything he said. If they hadn't been sent by the old woman, he'd definitely have thought that there was some ulterior motive to their behavior.

He shifted slightly on the seat, trying to find a more comfortable position since he'd gotten a crick in his neck from sitting with his head turned all the time. As he moved, the iPod in his lap slipped onto the seat beside him, and Granger caught sight of it.

"Oh, is that an iPod?" she asked even though that answer was obvious. Weasley just stared at the thing, clearly confused as if he didn't know what it was. "Didn't they tell you that it won't work?"

"What?"

"Muggle electronics don't work in the magical world, because the magic interferes with the electrical current," Granger explained.

So that's what had happened when the thing had refused to work at first. Now it worked though, could it be because of the pulse of magic he'd sent through it? Well, whatever, he wasn't going to explain that to them, anyway. With a shrug, he said: "It works for me."

"Really? It does?" Granger questioned, her eyes wide.

Harry just nodded in silence and, seeing that she was about to ask more, he quickly launched a question of his own. "What's Gryffindor?"

Granger seemed to have a hard time deciding whether to answer him or press for more information, but then she seemed to deflate a bit and sat back in her seat again. "Is there no one who reads _Hogwarts: A History_?"

"No," Weasley answered with a grin while Harry looked questioningly between them. Was that a book? He and the old woman hadn't even been to the bookshop.

His theory that he only needed to give Granger something to talk about proved to be true as she started talking enthusiastically about Hogwarts and the four houses; Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin. If he was to believe her, all Gryffindors were knights in shining armors while Ravenclaws were wise, Hufflepuffs were angels and Slytherins were personifications of evilness. The girl clearly knew a lot as she rambled on about the school, teachers and different subjects, but Harry wasn't sure how much he could trust since she seemed to be biased on _everything_.

When an old lady with a trolley came by to sell candy, Granger had started giving page references to the book and Harry had long since stopped listening and was more than grateful for the interruption. Weasley enthusiastically started showing him the different kinds of sweets and then realized that he didn't know what Quidditch was, which lead to a long lecture from the redhead about the rules of the game, the different bolls there were, the brooms and the teams, both the school teams and professional ones.

Ones they arrived, Harry was close to simply telling them to shut up and looked forward to getting off the train and away from the two talkative Gryffindors. He was reluctant to leave his stuff on the train, but everyone else seemed to do it so it would be weird if he dragged his trunk with him. He did fill his pockets with the most important things, however, such as money, the Vault key, his iPod and the cigarettes and the lighter.

When they got off the train, the sky was overhung and promising rain, the cool evening air heavy with humidity as if filled with water. There was people everywhere, milling about, searching for each other and moving in different directions in general confusion. Seeing as he had no idea where he was supposed to go, Harry followed Granger and Weasley to some old, black carriages drawn by black horses that looked more dead than alive with creepily empty eyes and leathery wings.

"What the bloody hell are those?" he asked, and both Granger and Weasley looked at him in confusion before following his gaze to see where he was looking.

Understanding dawned on Granger's face, and she turned to him with wide eyes. "You can see them?"

"Sure I can. What, you mean you can't?" Harry asked incredulously.

They both shook their heads in negative answers and Weasley paled under his freckles.

"They're Thestrals," Granger said quietly as they climbed into a carriage. "Only people who have seen death can see them."

"Who did you see die, mate?" Weasley asked and Granger elbowed him in the side for being insensitive.

"A guy at school who mixed drugs and booze and didn't survive it," Harry answered nonchalantly, which effectively shut up the two for the rest of the trip.

They rolled through a high, iron wrought gate guarded by winged boars and shortly thereafter, an old castle with many towers and turrets appeared out of the darkness, light shining in the many windows and spilling out onto the stairs from a par of grand double doors where students in robes were trickling in from the carriages. Exiting the carriage, Harry stepped aside for a bit, extracting himself from the stream of people to lean against the castle wall, his nerves making themselves reminded since he hadn't gotten to smoke for several hours now. Waving for Granger and Weasley to continue, he fished a cigarette out of his pocket and lightened it, gratefully drawing the smoke into his lungs and anxiously awaiting the calming effect.

He watched the students quietly as they walked by, most of them never noticing him as he stood in the shadows, while the few who did notice gave him curious looks. It was far better to stand outside the crowd like this than to be in it, he decided as the nicotine took care of his nerves, a chill making his shiver as a cold wind blew by. It was colder here than in Surrey, that was for sure.

"Potter!"

Turning around, he saw McGonagall standing on the stairs, hands on her hips as she appeared to be waiting for him, her lips pinched in a way he was coming to realize was characteristic for her. He stumped the cigarette out and waved the smell away before strolling over to her, hands in his pockets as he went up the stairs along with the last stragglers. She looked pretty intimidating like this, McGonagall, with her dark robes and pointed hat, wrinkled face hardened into a stern expression. He'd have to remember not to swear when she was close.

"This way, Mr. Potter," she said and led him through the doors and into a great entrance hall, past a pair of oaken double doors through which Harry glimpsed a big hall with long tables and into a small chamber to the side that was filled with kids so short they didn't even reach up to his chest in spite of the fact that he was relatively short.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," McGonagall greeted them all, attracting the attention of the kids. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is…"

Harry tuned her out, seeing no reason to listening to her as Granger had already told him about the sorting and the four houses. He stood awkwardly off to the side, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, his fingers playing with the vault key. He'd have to come up with a better place to have it – maybe he could make his trunk safe with magic so that he wouldn't have to worry about things getting stolen?

Some kid with wide, innocent eyes and freckles splashed over his nose turned around and stared at Harry, finding him interesting enough to poke his friend for him to turn around and stare as well. They irked him for some reason, not just because they stared but because they were so _innocent_, so _naïve_. He supposed that was the way kids their age were supposed to be, but his innocence had been taken from him at about the same age. He tried to ignore them as he stared blankly at McGonagall's pointed hat as it moved with the motions of her head, but he could practically feel their stares burning holes in his skull as the little pests continued staring. After a minute of silent suffering, he decided that the little shits only had themselves to blame and snapped his gaze to them abruptly, leveling them with a dark glare that promised pain worse than they could possibly imagine.

They both gave startled peeps of fright and scurried away to hide behind some other boys, drawing McGonagall's stern graze and a questioningly lifted brow when she saw that Harry was involved. In answer, he glanced towards the little plagues and gave a satisfied grin when they stiffened frightfully. He half expected McGonagall to give him a telling-off, but all the old woman did was sigh dejectedly in resignation as if she'd already given up all hope for him.

"Now, form a line and follow me," McGonagall finished, and the kiddies nervously obeyed, shuffling into a slightly crooked line in front of the stern woman.

Once everyone was in place, she nodded and turned to lead them out of the chamber, though the Entrance Hall and oaken doors. Harry took up the end, sauntering behind the last kid with his hands in his pockets, his eyes locked onto the doors when McGonagall opened them and revealed a vast stone hall with four long tables stood parallel to a table of elevated position. The kids before him made big eyes and gaped at the ceiling that showed the dark, overcast skies and the lit candles hovering in the air overhead, but Harry barely noticed either of them. His gaze swept over the several hundreds of teens seated along the tables, most of them younger than him but some looking older, all of them watching the kids with mild interest until Harry stepped through the doors at the end.

The focus of the entire hall moved to him, hundreds of eyes staring at him curiously as teens leaned closer to each other to whisper, questions and speculative answers spreading like wildfire. His whole body tensed and his first instinct was to leave, the situation making him uncomfortable and nervous. Taking a deep breath, he locked his gaze onto McGonagall's back and did his best to ignore the people surrounding him on all sides, staring and whispering. Shit, he needed a cigarette or at least _something_ to distract himself with. McGonagall rolled up a scroll and started calling out names, but Harry didn't listen, couldn't concentrate. As the ugly old hat went down over the first kid's head, the old woman gave him a worried look, seemingly picking up on his distress.

Harry gave her a small, jerky shake of his head and took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. They were just looking at him, right? It wasn't as if they were actually attacking him – they hadn't even gotten up from their seats. So what if they were staring? It wasn't like it actually mattered, anyway.

He'd unknowingly slouched under the weight of the many gazes, but now he straightened, his face hardening with determination and his eyes narrowing angrily, blaming himself for his stupidity. How could he be so stupid, showing an obvious weakness like that? If there was one thing he had learnt at 'Brutus, it was that you never _ever_ showed your weakness because it would make you vulnerable and turn you into an easy victim for someone else to prey on. Harry had learnt it quickly and lived by the rule ever since, and the bullies had gone for easier victims and he had gotten himself close to Stan for protection. This was no different – as long as he appeared confident, that alone would be enough to ward off most nuisances and to protect himself against the others, he would simply have to find a powerful ally. At 'Brutus, his magic had been of great help, but would it help him here? Everyone here knew magic, didn't they?

"Potter, Harry," McGonagall called, startling Harry from his thoughts.

"_Did she just say…?_"

"_Harry Potter? As in _the _Harry Potter?_"

"_They found him_?"

"_That's him_?"

Harry scowled darkly at the whispers but didn't look to the side as he walked past the kids who had yet to be sorted, their wide eyes following him just like every other pair of eyes in the entire hall. Really, couldn't they be a bit more discrete about it? But perhaps it was a good thing that everyone knew about him already? Maybe he could gain something from it?

McGonagall gave him a concerned, questioning look as he sat down on the stool, and he gave her a short nod in answer before she lowered the hat onto his head. Sitting on the stool, he was placed before the entire hall with only the elevated table behind his back, and he could clearly see how they were all staring at him, some ever going as far as to lean closer in interest.

"_Oh? You're definitely older than the children I usually sort, but I'm sure it won't be a problem_," a voice mumbled and Harry barely refrained from jumping in shock even though Granger had told him that the hat would be talking. "_You've got a good head on your shoulders, but you don't really care for your studies, do you? You're definitely brave as well, but certainly not foolhardy. We can't have you in Gryffindor, though – no, you're too cunning and distrusting for that. Well then, it'll have to be _SLYHTERIN!"

Harry scowled at the bellow – was the bloody hat trying to deafen him or something? – and got up from the stool, taking the hat off and handing it back to McGonagall. The entire hall was silent, and the faces turned to him were slack in shock. The old woman, however, smiled at him with a knowing glint in her eyes and put the hat onto the stool to applaud him, her lonely claps echoing through the hall. The people at the elevated table, who appeared to be professors, remembered themselves and clapped as well. The students seated at a table decorate din green picked up on the applaud with enthusiasm while disbelief and protest seemed to spread among the other tree tables.

"To the Slytherin table with you, Potter," McGonagall said and nodded towards the applauding table.

He gave her a slight nod before turning and walking towards the table decorated in green, his back straight and his gait sure. A girl at the table he walked past frowned at him with dislike, but she was easily quelled with a look as he passed by. He walked around the green table and followed the wall, aiming for a seat at the end of the table that would be close to the door and let him have his back to the wall.

He never reached his destination, however, as a teen rose from his seat just before him, blocking his way. Harry immediately stilled, his body tense in preparation as he watched the teen guardedly, taking in the blonde hair and cold eyes. He was slightly taller than Harry, his built just as thin but his stance, while proud, lacking the tell-tale signs that someone used to fighting carried. He reached out towards Harry, his hand open to be shaken as Harry noted that the nails were manicured and that his knuckles were free of scars. Whoever he was, he was confident but most definitely not a fighter.

"Draco Malfoy," the blonde teen introduced himself as McGonagall continued the Sorting.

Deciding that he couldn't afford to get himself enemies yet, Harry accepted the hand for a shake, and Malfoy smiled smugly. With a gesture, he invited Harry to take a seat beside him, and Harry reluctantly accepted, his eyes swiping over the teens seated around him. There were two girls who immediately made him weary as he could clearly see that they were nothing like Granger and were, therefore, probably not as easy to handle. Apart from Malfoy, there were four other boys; a dark-skinned one who was more strongly built than Harry, a tall and thin one with dark hair and two tall guys who reminded him strongly of Dudley and would probably be as easily handled.

"Welcome to Slytherin," Malfoy said from beside him and put an end to Harry's assessment of the people around him.

Really, this whole thing made him nervous. Malfoy clearly wanted something or he wouldn't have stopped Harry the way he had, but Harry had no idea what it could be. Was it because of his supposed fame, or was there some other reason? Then there was the fact that he was sitting in a group of strangers, his every escape closed off by either people, the table or the wall behind him.

Even though the table was empty of food, the cutlery and plates were in place. He discreetly reached out and snatched a knife and hid it in his lap, stroking his thumb over the blade to sharpen it into something usable.

"Let me introduce my friends," Malfoy continued, apparently thinking Harry would be delighted to know what their names were. "This is Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass."

The two young women smiled at him invitingly, putting him on edge as he wearily shook their hands and mumbled greetings. The dark guy proved to be Blaise Zabini while the tall guy's name was Theodore Nott. The two Dudley-like guys were called Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle and seemed to be just as stupid, reassuring Harry that they, at least, wouldn't be a problem. The others were all unknowns, whoever, and he really didn't know how to handle them. They all looked rich and didn't behave like normal people, so Harry could safely say that he had no experience dealing with people like them.

A hush suddenly fell over the hall, and Harry looked up to see that an elderly man with a long, white beard and horrible robes had risen from his seat at the middle of the teachers' table, his eyes swiping over the hall from behind half-moon spectacles. Did Harry imagine it, or did the old man's gaze linger on him?

"Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts!" he greeted them all cheerfully. "I know you're all hungry, so don't let me stop you – dig in!"

Harry's eyes widened when the previously empty tables became laden with food, his jaw slacking as he stared. There were potatoes and pasta, there were cutlets and chicken, salads and pies and cakes and biscuits. And there was _so much_ of everything! He'd never seen so much food before in his life.

"Pumpkin juice, Potter?" Greengrass asked pleasantly and poured some kind of orange drink into the goblet before him. And it wasn't even a normal glass – it had to be a bloody goblet!

"Thanks," he mumbled and took the goblet, staring at the liquid inside. What the hell was pumpkin juice?

He swallowed a mouthful of it, and very nearly spat it back out again, his face twisting in dislike as he put the goblet down. The others looked at him with obvious surprise as he shuddered. So fucking sweet! How the hell could they drink that?

"One would think you'd never had pumpkin juice before, Potter," Parkinson noted slowly, and Harry gave her a look that clearly communicated "no shit".

"I haven't," he answered and, spotting a carafe of what appeared to be water, reached out for it to pour himself some to wash away the taste with. Sure, soda like Coke and Fanta was sweet, but this was on a whole different level!

"Did you grow up with muggles or something?" Parkinson asked disdainfully, and Harry looked up at her, meeting her cold gaze.

"Yeah, I did," he stated, remembering what Granger had told him about muggles. Parkinson didn't seem to like muggles for some reason, so telling her that he'd grown up with them wouldn't get him any favors, but he didn't care enough to lie about it. Not to mention the fact that it would be bloody obvious that he didn't grow up in the wizarding world since he knew virtually nothing about it.

His answer made them stare at him in shock again, and Malfoy was the one to collect himself the quickest this time.

"How awful it must have been, growing up amongst _muggles_," he opined, his gaze intent as he seemed to await Harry's reaction.

"Can't say I liked them," Harry agreed and put some food onto his plate, deciding to eat in order to make himself look more at ease.

The Slytherin teens exchanged meaningful looks, and Malfoy seemed to relax a little, almost as if Harry had passed a test of some kind. He had no idea what that could have been, though, and so decided to pretend that he hadn't noticed.

"I take it you are not partial to muggles, then?" Malfoy asked carefully, and Harry shrugged in answer. He didn't like people in general seeing as they couldn't be trusted, but Malfoy nodded his blonde head as if he had just confirmed something.

"What about your education?" asked the tall and thin guy – his name had been something short… Nott? – asked and leaned forward.

"What about it?" Harry countered as he had no idea what Nott meant.

"Your magical education must have suffered if you grew up with muggles," the guy clarified, and Harry shrugged again.

"I didn't find out about magic until McGonagall came to my school and told me about it." Giving them such information was showing his weakness, but once again, he didn't have much choice seeing as the truth would become obvious soon enough. He didn't like it, though. At some point soon, he'd have to show them that he was not to be fucked with.

"You've lived with muggles all this time?" Greengrass asked, aghast, and Harry simply nodded. Where else was he supposed to have lived?

Taking a bite from the chicken in an attempt to put an end to the interrogation, he was surprised by how good it was. Spicy, hot and soft meet, far better than any food he'd ever gotten at 'Brutus or Privet Drive. His appreciation must have shown on his face, because Malfoy raised his brows with a slight smile.

"Do you find the food that good?" he asked, and Harry nodded, opting for taking another bite instead of actually answering. "I can't imagine how you must have lived, then. The food served at Malfoy Manor is of a far better quality, after all."

Harry didn't answer, just continued eating as he refrained from snorting. Malfoy Manor? Really? They had a fucking _manor_? And "_the food being served_"? Malfoy clearly didn't cook, that much was for sure.

"If you have no magical education, then how will your studies be planned?" Nott pressed, clearly interested in the matter. "They're not thinking of placing you with the first years, are they?"

"No idea," Harry shrugged and took a gulp of water. "Hope not. The little shits are a pain in the ass."

For the third time that evening, he unintentionally got them to stare at him in shock, his language clearly not sitting well with them. He enjoyed the temporary silence and let his gaze stray, taking in the hall and the many students, many of which were still sneaking glances at him. McGonagall had taken her place beside the strange old man at the staff table, and on the other side of the bearded man sat a sour looking man with stripy, black hair, his charcoal eyes narrowed darkly as they were locked onto Harry. Not one to back down, Harry stared right back until the man was forced to look away because a witch to his side was talking to him.

"Who's the black-haired one?" Harry asked with a nod towards the staff table.

"Do you mean professor Snape?" Malfoy asked rhetorically. "He teaches Defense Against Dark Arts and is the head of our house."

Harry just hummed in answer and returned to his meal, intent on enjoying as much of the good food as he could. One of the reasons for his slight statue was no doubt that lack of good food, so he would have to redeem that.

All too soon, he was stuffed and felt like he would explode if he ate anything more – or, more likely, get it all back up again. He leaned back in the chair and sighed contentedly, but his gaze was as alert as ever as he kept an eye on the people around him as well as the rest of the hall. Greengrass and Parkinson were discussing the latest fashion in robes from Italy or something like that, the very though making his repress a yawn in disinterest. Nott, Zabini and Malfoy were discussing the kids that had been Sorted into the Slytherin house earlier, and they seemed to know a surprising amount about them just from hearing their names. Did that mean that they were not only rich but influential as well? His gaze drifted to Crabbe and Goyle and he frowned in disgust, finding that they were still stuffing their faces which only made them resemble Dudley more.

The hall fell silent around them, and Harry looked up to see that the old man had gotten up again. Now that he thought about it, he must be the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, who Granger had told him about. He narrowed his eyes slightly in suspicion. He had never liked Director Blake and neither had any of the others at 'Brutus, so he could only hope that this Dumbledore was different. Judging from his behavior and choice of clothing, he seemed to be.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat. "Just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. First years should know that the forest on the grounds is called the Forbidden Forest for a reason, and a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well. Our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has also asked me to remind you all that no magic should be used in between classes in the corridors. Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of term – anyone interested in playing for their house should contact madam Hooch.

"And once again: Welcome to Hogwarts! For the older students; Welcome back! Now off to bed with you!"

A racket matching the one during meals at 'Brutus broke out as the students got up from their seats, chattering and trying to push their way forward – without much success, seeing as everyone was doing the same thing. Some older students were shouting for the first years to follow then, gathering the little shits around them in clusters that blocked the way for the rest of the student population. Harry froze in his seat, his whole body tensing when he felt someone pass by behind him, and he was just about to shoot up when Malfoy turned towards him and put a hand on his shoulder, the fact that he had seen the hand coming the only thing stopping Harry from treating the blonde the same way he had treated the drunk when he'd eaten lunch with McGonagall.

"Let me show you to the common room, Potter," Malfoy invited, though Harry had little choice but to follow the other. He had no idea what kind of place the _common room_ was, so the chance of him fining his way on his own was pretty much non-existent.

"You shan't be grouped with the first years," the blonde opined as he led Harry through the crowd, the others joining them as they made their way out of the hall and across the now equally crowded entrance hall. Harry walked with his hands deep in his pockets to guard his valuables as his eyes swept back and forth, his body tense and ready should he have to defend himself. They made it out of the mass of people without any attacks, however, and were soon walking through dark corridors of stone lit with the occasional lamp, a group of some younger teens walking somewhere behind them, their voices carried along the corridor by the stone.

"Here we are," Malfoy said rather suddenly and stopped, but there was nothing there except for more stone and dark shadows. Harry gave him a skeptical look, wondering what the hell Malfoy was talking about. Hadn't he said that they were going to some common room? Then why were they here, in the middle of a dark dungeon corridor? Where they going to-?

"Pure-blood," Malfoy stated before Harry's suspicions could truly manifest, and just when he was about to ask the blonde what he meant by that, he stopped himself as he saw movement from the corner of his eye. Turning his head to the side, his eyes widened in surprise when the wall moved to reveal a passage which Malfoy lead him through.

Harry followed at a slower pace, uncomfortable with the others walking behind him and hesitant to enter some unknown place where the others seemed to be at home and would therefore have the advantage.

"Welcome to the Slytherin common room, Potter."

Malfoy made a sweeping gesture with his arm to show off the room into which they had entered, and Harry's gaze followed the sweep. They were in a room lit with the living flames of candles protected by green glass, bathing the green and black leather couches with buttons in green light. A fire was crackling in a tall fireplace, what appeared to be the Slytherin crest mounted on the wall over the mantle. There were high, gothic windows, but instead of showing the outside grounds, there was water licking peacefully against the glass, water plants waving languidly in the current. Harry had to admit it was pretty cool, like looking into a giant but pretty murky aquarium, but it also meant that he wouldn't be able to go through the windows should he need to escape.

"You have to remember the password, of course," Malfoy said, and when Harry turned to look at him, there was that smug smile on his lips again.

What password? Oh, was that was "pure-blood" was supposed to be?

"You cannot tell someone from another house what the password is or where the entrance to the common room is," he continued his instructions and Harry nodded distractedly, listening with one ear as he watched the younger teens enter through the passage. It looked bloody weird when the wall started moving just like that. "The password changes every fortnight and will be posted on the noticeboard. If you ever miss it, you can ask me as I am a prefect and will always know what the current password is."

Harry just nodded to show that he'd been listening while he silently wondered what being a Perfect entailed. While she had been _very informative_ on most areas, Granger hadn't talked all that much about Prefects even though she was one herself. They did seem to have some kind of higher ranking when compared to other students, though, so perhaps becoming closer to Malfoy would be good? He'd have to keep an eye at the teen to see what kind of status he had.

Malfoy then proceeded to show him to the dorm they would share where a high, narrow window of the same style showed the dark waters outside, throwing strange, flowing designs of light onto the floor. Six grand four-poster beds stood along the walls, their trunks at the foot. It seemed… peaceful in a weird, creepy way, and Harry doubted he would sleep peacefully with five virtual strangers in the same room. At 'Brutus, he'd only had to share room with one other person, and he had seen to it that that other person was someone from the "gang" even after Stan had left. For some time, he'd even been lucky to have the room for himself just like at Privet Drive, so he wearily wondered what it would be like to share a room with five other guys. Couldn't be all that good, could it? There were curtains around the beds, sure, but would that be enough when six teenagers decided to get off? Hell no.

At least it'd be a safe place where he wouldn't have to worry about women.

The others were moving over to their beds and trunks, so Harry followed their example and went over to his own trunk to check that all of his things were still there. So far, nothing had been stolen, so that was good. He kicked his shoes off and pulled off the open robe to dump it over the footboard of the bed, the grey pull-over soon joining it as Harry dug into his trunk in search for some sweatpants. Really, fancy trousers and button-up shirts really wasn't his thing. Finding the sweatpants, he fumbled with the buttons of the shirt – why did they have to be so fucking small? – and shrugged it off.

The other occupants of the dorm had been talking and walking around, searching for things in their own trunks, but all fell silent when Harry's shirt dropped to the floor. The sudden change made him tense and turn around to see what had caused it, only to find five pairs of eyes staring at him, and he had no idea why. Zabini was, by now, shirtless, so it couldn't be his state of undress.

"The muggles gave you that?" Zabini asked and Harry frowned.

"Gave me what?" Harry asked as he had no idea what the other was talking about.

"The scar on your back," Nott clarified quietly and Malfoy nodded.

"Oh, that," Harry mumbled, relieved that it was nothing more than that.

Really, the scar wasn't anything special, just a patch of uneven, broken skin that he'd gotten from one of the more violent fights at 'Brutus when a guy had splashed boiling water on him. It was nothing much and looked worse than it had even been – he'd seen guys at 'Brutus with far more impressive scars – so what was with the big reaction?

"Yeah, I got it from a muggle," he answered with a slight grin as he unbuttoned his trousers and stripped down to his boxers. Growing up at a place like 'Brutus did wonders for your modesty and shyness since all students, no matter their age, shared the same communal showers. Stripping in front of five guys was nothing against stripping in front of twenty guys who were all bigger and all wanted to get their hands on you.

"I made him regret it, though," he added darkly.

After that, they all went about their routines quietly as they prepared for the night, the others glancing at him repeatedly when they thought he wouldn't notice. He pretended he didn't as he crawled into bed and pulled the curtains shut, the transfigured knife finding its place under his pillow. The bed was softer than any bed he'd ever slept in before, the pillow cradling his head and neck comfortably and the sheets smooth against his skin, making him shiver pleasurably. He lay silent and listened to the others and the water outside the window, refusing to fall asleep until the others fell silent and were off to dreamland. Even then, he slept fitfully. His hand under the pillow, unconsciously gripping the handle of the knife.

**There you have it! :) **

**Now, I'd like to know your opinion on one thing, namely Stan. I would like to know what you all think about him, as I got a review asking me to rip him to pieces, preferabley with some wolves involved ^^ Anyone else who feels the same? I do have an idea about what to do with him, you see, but I haven't quite decided if I should add it or not, so you should make your voice heard on the matter ;) **


	4. Chapter 4

**Hi! I'm sorry to announce that updates will probably be a bit slow from here on as I have to write ahead a bit to be sure that I keep the story together and don't make too many mistakes :P I'll keep it to a minimum of a chapter a month, though, so I hope you'll be patient with me :)**

The Great Hall was less rowdy the next morning as a lot of people were yawning instead of talking, some dozing off over their toast and eggs. The hall wasn't filled, either, seeing as it was a Sunday and many seemed to be sleeping in. Harry probably would have, too, since he'd fallen asleep later than the others, but Malfoy had decided that that wasn't a choice. Apparently, the blonde was going to show Harry around Hogwarts today, a gesture that made Harry unsettled as he wondered why the teen bothered. There had to be some kind of motive behind it, but Harry had no idea what it could be and he didn't want to indebt himself to the other.

To Harry's relief, the tour was postponed when McGonagall came up to them towards the end of the meal, approaching from a direction that allowed Harry's to see her so that she didn't startle him.

"Mr Potter?" she asked primly, calling for his attention as she came to a halt by his side.

"Yeah?" he acknowledged, wondering what she might want.

"Would you come with me?" she asked and Harry got up with a shrug.

"Sure," he answered, happy to get away from the other teens for some time since he just didn't get them. Malfoy, however, didn't seem to be as happy about it.

"I was hoping to show Potter around today," he stated, clearly protesting the change of plans. Was he the kind of pain-in-the-ass spoiled brat who was used to getting anything he wanted? Harry sure as hell hoped not.

"Potter will re-join you at lunch, Mr Malfoy," McGonagall answered sternly, easily dismissing the blonde. She have Harry a nod to make sure that he was still with her before leading the way, and Harry followed her after shrugging at Malfoy's questioning look.

"So… What are we going to do?" he asked once they were out in the Entrance Hall, McGonagall's steps leading them up the stairs to the higher levels of the castle.

"We would like to evaluate your magical ability, Mr Potter, so that we are able to plan your education," the old woman explained and Harry hummed in answer as he followed her, hands showed deeply in his pockets. There wasn't much he could say to that, anyway, was there?

As they walked, Harry took the chance to look around the place in an attempt to orient himself. In the beginning, it seemed easy enough with long, straight corridors of stone, but then the fucking stairs started moving which made it fucking impossible to know how to get to one place to the next. As if that wasn't enough, he noticed that the paintings were animate and an armour turned its head to watch them as they walked by. Couldn't everything dead just stay dead?!

When they finally came to a stop, Harry was completely confused and convinced that he would never be able to find his way through this living castle.

The old woman had stopped outside of a door and when she opened it, there proved to be a classroom on the other side. Or, well, Harry concluded that it must be a classroom with the blackboard on one wall and the many desks facing it, but it was nothing like any classroom he had ever seen before. It was old, it was stone and it was gothic with high arched windows and a vaulted ceiling – not to mention the fact that there were two men in the room, both of them dressed in the weird wizarding fashion and looking pretty quirky.

"Ah, Mr Potter!" the old man with the long beard who wore the strangest clothes in the room – probably in the whole place – exclaimed cheerfully and turned to Harry as soon as he'd entered the room with McGonagall, the man's blue eyes twinkling in a pretty unsettling way. "Welcome to Hogwarts, my boy, welcome!"

The headmaster smiled at him, but Harry didn't smile back, just gave him a nod without any meaning behind it, already weary of the man. He didn't seem to be anything like Director Blake had been, but he was still an authoritarian figure, the headmaster of the school and, consequentially, the last person whose attention he wanted to attract. For some reason, even though Harry had never seen the old fart before, the man seemed to have some kind of interest in him, and that couldn't be good. Did it have something to do with his supposed fame? Whatever it was, he'd do his best to not attract any attention and disappear under the radar.

Withdrawing a wand, the old man waved it and four squashy armchairs in purple appeared out of thin air to which the Headmaster gestured for them to take their seats. Along with the others, Harry did so reluctantly, suspiciously expecting the armchair to disappear just as quickly as it had appeared, effectively dumping him onto the floor. The armchair held, however, and once they were all more or less comfortably seated, the old man turned to introductions.

"I am Albus Dumbledor and I'm the Headmaster of Hogwarts. I am very happy to have you here at Hogwarts," the old man expressed, but Harry simply gave him a blank look. Yes, the old fart was definitely more interested in him than what was normal.

His silence didn't seem to deter the man, however, as the Headmaster quickly went on: "Minerva McGonagall you have met before, of course. My deputy headmistress, the Head of Gryffindor House _and_ our most formidable professor of Transfiguration. Whatever would we do without you?"

The headmaster's babbling gained him no more than an impatient look from McGonagall, and he seemed to take the hint because he quickly went on to the fourth person in the room; a tall guy in black with a big, crooked nose who looked like he needed a shower, his black eyes glaring at Harry just as he'd done yesterday. There was a sneer in the lines of his lips, and something told Harry that it was pretty permanent.

"This is your Head of House, Mr Potter. Severus Snape, previously teaching potions but now our professor of Defence Against Dark Arts. I am sure the two of you will get acquainted and get along just fine," the Headmaster stated jovially, and both Harry and Snape were quick to give him looks telling him that it seemed bloody unlikely.

"Perhaps we could move on, now that we all know each other, Albus?" McGonagall cut in when the old fart seemed to be about to continue his babbling, and she gave him a stern look as he looked sheepish.

"Ah, yes, of course. I trust you know why we are here, Mr Potter?" the Headmaster asked, and Harry nodded shortly in answer. "Good, good, then how about beginning with the theoretical subjects?"

As Harry had no idea what the theoretical subjects were, he simply shrugged noncommittally and the Headmaster beamed happily at him.

"Well then, Mr Potter. What kind of education have you received up to this point?" Dumbledore began cheerfully.

"I went to school," Harry answered as there was, once again, not much to say. School was school, after all. Still, they seemed to expect something more, so he added: "Secondary school, you know."

"Ah, muggle schooling," the old fart realized, sounding as if school was some kind of wondrous mystery.

From the corner of his eye, Harry could see the sour guy sneer in distaste.

"Have you no education, Potter?" he asked, spitting out Harry's surname like a curse. Harry had no idea what it was, but the guy obviously had something against him.

"What – I told you I went to school."

"Yes, a muggle school. Tell me, Potter – did you get any _magical _education at that muggle school of yours?" Snape asked acidly, and Harry had to remind himself that he wanted to stay under the radar, that he wanted them to think he was just some kid, that he had to act the part but _damn_it was hard.

"I didn't know about magic until McGonagall told me about it," he answered tensely, his jaw clenched against the biting comebacks he wanted to deliver.

The bloody bastard's eyes narrowed darkly as if he blamed Harry for his lack of magical education, while McGonagall gave the old fart a meaningful look, almost as if saying "I told you so".

"Then you have no magical education, Mr Potter?" the Headmaster asked, the first hint of seriousness in his tone even though his eyes were still twinkling at Harry over the rim of his half-moon spectacles as Harry shrugged. Dumbledore stroked his beard with a wrinkled and bony hand, a contemplative look on his face. "Well… There isn't much we can do about that, is there? The best cause of action, at least regarding the theoretical subjects, would most likely be to let you participate in the first year classes."

Harry frowned, definitely not happy with the idea of having to spend time with the little shits, not to mention how degrading it would be to be sorted with kids five years younger than himself as if he was retarded or something. _Becoming one of the many and staying under the radar_ – yeah right, as if that would be possible in a class full of eleven-year-olds. Glancing to the side, he saw that McGonagall didn't look overjoyed, either, her lips pinched and a frown deepening her wrinkles, but she didn't raise any objections, probably thinking that it was for the best or something like that. On his other side, Snape looked far too smug as if he thought Harry deserved to be sorted with the kids. Harry glared at the man, deciding that he was nothing but a slimy bastard. Seeing that his decision wasn't met by standing ovations, Dumbledore cleared his throat and moved on.

"How about proceeding with the practical part?" he asked rhetorically. "Your wand, Mr Potter?"

Harry fished his wand out of his pocket, though he had no idea what he was supposed to do with it. He'd seen the others bring theirs along, so he'd thought there must be some reason for it and had taken this as well, but why he would need to take it with him was still a mystery to him.

"The practical subjects are Potions, Defence Against Dark Arts, Charms, Herbology and Transfiguration. You will study Potions and Herbology with the first years, seeing as they do not require wandwork to the same extent as the other three subjects – is that not so, Albus?" McGonagall explained and the Headmaster nodded jovially.

"Very much so, Minerva," the old fart agreed. "Shall we begin?"

The Headmaster turned to Harry with his smile and twinkling eyes, and begun.

"Can you perform the levitation charm, Mr Potter?"

"The what?" Harry asked blankly, having no idea of what the old man was babbling about.

"_Wingardium Leviosa_, Mr Potter. Please do try it."

The Headmaster proceeded to create a feather out of thin air and showed Harry how he waved his wand and pronounced the incantation, as he called it, to make the feather float into the air. Harry reluctantly tried it once urged to do so, but little to nothing happened and he mostly felt silly for sitting there, babbling nonsense and waving a wand uselessly. The hell was the point with it, anyway?

After the levitation charm came _reparo_, followed by a number of others, but it quickly became apparent that Harry couldn't perform any of the spells they showed him. Dumbledore passed him on to Snape with a frown of concern, and the greasy guy proved to be even worse when trying to teach something. The _lumos_ charm made the tip of his wand glow slightly on the second try, which was his biggest achievement so far, but everything after that failed spectacularly and the greasy git didn't seem to know if he should sneer disdainfully of look smug as if proven right. McGonagall tried to get him to turn a match into a needle, patiently explaining the different steps of what was apparently called transfiguration and guiding him along as he tried, but nothing whatsoever happened to the match before him.

"This is obviously not working," Snape sneered after Harry's seventh try. "Just place the boy with the first years where he belongs."

"Harry," the old woman cut in before Harry could answer. "How about trying without your wand and without the incantation?"

Harry stared at her, hesitant. He didn't want them to know what he could do, but then again, McGonagall already knew…

"As if he'd be able to perform wandless and voiceless magic when he cannot perform the most basic of spells," Snape opined, pushing Harry over the edge.

Putting the wand in his pocket, he stared at the match before him and imagined it turning into a needle, _willing_ it to do so, and he felt his magic move about him, reaching for the match and enveloping it. A moment later, there lay a shining steel needle before them and Harry leaned back in his seat with his arms crossed, silently challenging them to discredit him now. McGonagall smiled approvingly and nodded to him in praise as Dumbledore leaned closer, his gaze moving from Harry to the needle and back, fascination sparkling in his eyes. Snape shut up for once, apparently unable to find some biting remark to insult Harry with, and that alone made it worth it.

After that, Harry performed the other spells and charms that they'd gone over as soon as they'd explained what the spells were supposed to do, and he did so flawlessly, his magic seemingly eager to please him and happy to be active again. Not to mention that it felt _good_ to be able to prove himself capable, to wipe that sneer off of Snape's face and see the Headmaster's concern and disappointment turn into fascination and interest, even though the two latter emotions were a bit disconcerting.

"Very good, Mr Potter! Never before have I seen anything like it!" the old man exclaimed when Harry held a ball of light in his hand, which was meant to imitate the effects of the _lumos_. "How did you learn to control your magic in this way?"

Harry shrugged and let the ball of light dissipate. "I had to learn, so I did," he answered dispassionately, and really, that was all there was to it.

"But you must have trained your magic, practiced to be able to perfect your control. Did you not?"

"I guess…"

The greasy git looked irked by his short answers, but the Headmaster's eyes seemed to twinkle more, a feat Harry hadn't thought possible.

"So you took control of your accidental magic because you needed to," Dumbledore mumbled thoughtfully, stroking his beard again. "What circumstances caused it? Why did you feel you had to learn to control your magic?"

Harry stared at the man blankly, his eyes narrowed. Did the old fuck really expect him to blur out his life story, about 'Brutus and the way he'd lived there? About the way he'd whored himself out to Stan at the age of 13 because he was small and weak and an easy victim, only to learn to control his magic shortly thereafter? How he'd put up with Stan for the next few years because it assured him protection and the power of being the boss's bitch and right hand man? How'd he'd constantly been tempted to tell Stan to fuck off but been too unsure if he'd be able to hold his own even with his magic, seeing as the guys in the gang had generally obeyed Stan and not him? If he thought Harry would tell him about that, he'd have to think again, the old fuck.

"I didn't get along with my relatives," he stated, not saying anything more.

"Oh, didn't they wait on you properly?" Snape accused contemptuously and Harry met the black gaze with a glare of his own, his reasons for behaving becoming less and less important.

"No," he bit out with barely restrained anger. "They had me slaving for them and then placed me at 'Brutus just to get rid of me."

"When did you learn to control your magic, Mr Potter?" Dumbledore asked, interrupting the budding fight and shooting the greasy guy a look.

"I was 13 something," Harry answered tensely, seeing no reason to withhold the information.

"Truly fascinating, indeed, to gain such control of one's own magic in three years without guidance of any kind," Dumbledore praised, but the words left a bad taste in Harry's mouth, the tone too patronizing to sit well with the teen. Did the old fart think he was a kid or something? "What are your capabilities?"

Harry shrugged again. He had never been unable to do anything, so he really didn't know if there were things he couldn't do. Then again, he hadn't tried to find out, either.

"Limitations?" the Headmaster probed, and Harry frowned in dislike at the man's obvious interest as the old fart leaned closer.

Not answering, he simply shrugged again. Whatever he did, he definitely wanted to keep his distance to the Headmaster, because he was simply too fascinated, too interested, as if he saw something more in Harry than was really there – or rather, than Harry knew of.

"Well, Mr Potter cannot take the practical classes with the first years, that much is clear," Dumbledore concluded after a moment of silence.

"Why not? He obviously doesn't know how to use a wand, so put him with the other children," Snape opined acidly.

"He is hardly a child, Severus," McGonagall protested coldly. "He will be 17 in less than a year."

"Age isn't known to be connected to maturity," the greasy git shot back, but McGonagall had an answer to that as well.

"No, that much is abundantly clear from your behaviour."

Harry felt a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth and decided that McGonagall might be okay even though she was an adult. Snape, on the other hand, looked as if he'd swallowed something sour.

"Mr Potter is too magically advanced, Severus, which is why he cannot join the first years," Dumbledore explained diplomatically, pretending that the argument between the two professors had never taken place. "You are correct that he cannot use a wand, however, and therefore he cannot study with his year mates. Instead, we will have to solve the matter with a private tutor."

"Special treatment of a student, Albus? Favouring him, are you?" Snape immediately accused, seeing his chance.

"This is a special case, Severus," Dumbledore argued mildly.

"But a private tutor? Are you going to suggest that we pay the fees as well?"

"Oh, no, that won't be necessary," the Headmaster answered, jovial again. "We have plenty of capable professors here at Hogwarts."

"All of whom are busy with their original classes and responsibilities," came the answer as Snape clearly thought no one deserved the burden of having to teach Harry. While Harry didn't agree with him, he didn't want someone to tutor him privately as it would only make him stand out more.

"Severus, my boy," the old man answered in a fatherly tone that made black eyes narrow, a reaction that Harry could relate to. "You are his head of house and you are very capable with wandwork. I also happen to know that you have free Thursdays and Tuesday mornings."

Snape's face fell and Harry felt his eyes widen as he shook his head in silent refusal.

"I have to brew potions for Poppy," the greasy git pressed out.

"Oh, I'm sure you will be able to manage," Dumbledore said contentedly, obviously thinking that the matter was settled.

Needless to say, neither Harry nor Snape were happy.

* * *

Black robes billowed ominously behind him as Severus stormed through the halls of Hogwarts, his black glare causing some first years to scurry away fearfully. He barely noticed them, however, as his scorn was directed at Potter; Potter who just had to be special and lived to make Severus' life difficult. As soon as Albus had informed him that the teen had been found, Severus had known that the teen would cause trouble and ruin the relative peace of his life, so while the rest of the Order had breathed sighs of relief and the wizarding world had perked up in interest, Severus had wished that the teen could have stayed hidden in whatever hole he had buried himself in.

Not even a day had gone by, and the brat was already causing trouble, turning Severus' life over without even trying. Because _of course_ he couldn't be normal like everyone else, he just had to be special, and _of course_ Albus had to find a way to make Severus responsible for the brat so that he couldn't even avoid him. Not that he would ever admit it, and he most certainly did not agree, but he could see why Albus would place Potter with him. Due to his unique position, he would be the first to know it if the teen started swaying towards the Dark and would, presumable, be able to stop it since they all _needed _the boy to save them from the Dark Lord – at least that was what Albus seemed to think. Severus was quite sure he'd have been able to live a perfectly fine life without the blasted brat's interference.

Reaching his quarters, he stormed into them and slammed the door for the hell of it, his long strides taking him to the desk and the uppermost left drawer where a bottle of firewhisky waited for him, installed for the many evenings that had yet to come when he had a tedious day of teaching idiots behind him and the never ending pile of hopelessly bad assignments to correct before him. He had a feeling that he would empty the bottle faster than previous years as Potter would no doubt be difficult to handle. Not only was the brat distrustful and easily angered, he was also magically strong and in control of his magic, so it might be dangerous to push him too far. Not that Severus would start treating him like a hero that the rest of the British wizarding society seemed to think he was – if it came down to it, he was sure that he would be able to best the child.

He sank into the armchair before the fire and rubbed his temples with his thumb and two fingers, the bottle in his other hand. Perhaps he should bother to pour a glass as drinking directly from the bottle made him look like a drunk, but there was only him there to see, so he opted for wondering how stupid Albus could possibly be to place the Potter kid with Lily's sister. Everyone who had known Lily had known that her sister had hated magic and everything connected to it, so placing a magical child in their family was like begging for a disaster to happen, even more so when it was the child of the sister Petunia had hated since the age of eleven.

Severus forced himself to stop thinking about the way Potter had likely been treated, about the horrible school Minerva had told them about and what had caused the kid to turn into what he was today. He definitely didn't want to think about what could have happened to the child for him to manage the impossible and learn to control his accidental magic without guidance, and drowned the question at the bottom of the bottle.

He had the afternoon and evening to himself before he had to get into the classroom and attempt to teach the stupid plagues that didn't want to learn, and then there was one more day before he had to see Potter again. He was going to use the time well.

With a last gulp of firewhisky, he put the bottle back where it belonged and started moving about the room in preparation for brewing, hoping that a good potion would take his mind off the trouble looming ahead.

* * *

Harry waved his hand languidly as he stepped into the Great Hall for lunch, dissipating the smell of cigarettes that clung to his hair and clothes. After the nervous and tense situation with the three adults holding the most power over him at this place, he had really needed that cigarette to calm down a bit. Not only that, but it also helped him resist the urge to punch that greasy git's fucking big nose and give it a reason to be crooked.

Unluckily, the gang of Slytherins that had seemed to adopt him were already there at the green-decorated table, eating of the soup and toast while _conversing_ politely. Damn, they behaved like politicians, the bunch of them.

Before he could even think of trying to avoid them, one of the girls – the Greengrass one – spotted him and waved at him with a smile, which immediately attracted the others' attention to him. As if that wasn't enough, the Parkinson girl got up from her seat and came over to him with a smile that was probably meant to be inviting but that only managed to creep him out. To his shock, she latched on to his arm and hugged it as she led him along to the Slytherin table, his whole body tense as he walked, his green gaze watching her every move guardedly as he waited for an attack of some kind. She didn't even seem to notice, and once they reached the table, she made him sit between the two girls, his back stiff as he tried to keep track of both of them at the same time, his eyes unsuccessfully attempting to look in two opposite directions simultaneously.

"I hope professor McGonagall didn't give you any trouble," Greengrass said as soon as his ass hit the wood of the bench.

"Yes, I cannot imagine what she would want with you," Parkinson quickly agreed, nodding sagely. "She is the Head of the Gryffindor House, after all. If anyone should be responsible for you, it should be professor Snape."

"I met him," Harry answered, repressing a groan at the reminder that _that _greasy git was supposed to be responsible for him.

"Oh, did you?" Parkinson exclaimed, somehow managing to do it and still appear a bit reserved. When normal people exclaimed something, they usually drew everyone's attention – not Parkinson.

"What did you think about him?" Greengrass asked calmly with a slight smile, pushing the jug of water towards him. Thank God it wasn't that orange, sweet stuff he'd tried yesterday!

"He's a-" Harry began, but caught himself at the last moment when he saw their expectant faces. Shit, they liked the guy, didn't they? Then he couldn't tell him how much he wanted to punch his face. Changing the sentence, he squeezed out: "- bit difficult to get along with."

The others nodded in understanding, and Harry sighed quietly, reminding himself that he couldn't afford to make enemies yet.

"He is a very strict man," Zabini agreed, nodding from his side of the table. "Especially when it comes to his classes, but he definitely wants everyone to do their best with their studies."

_Oh, lovely_, Harry thought sarcastically.

"Sometimes, even your best doesn't seem to be enough," Parkinson cut in.

"Don't talk ill behind his back," Malfoy interrupted with a slight frown. "He is a good man and only wants the best for all Slytherins."

"Yes, Draco, we know," Greengrass placated the blonde and the others nodded.

"Professor Snape is Draco's godfather," Parkinson whispered in Harry's ear, leaning close so that her breath washed over his neck. Every muscle in his body seemed to lock up and he stared at her in shock, wishing he could get up and leave or at last lean away from her, an option made impossible by the fact that Greengrass was sitting on his other side. Parkinson didn't seem to pick up on his discomfort at all as she gave him a smile that was putting him on edge instead of charming him, and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief when she sat back again, giving him some much needed space.

"I must admit I don't understand why professor McGonagall brought you to meet professor Snape," Zabini stated, watching Harry with raised brows.

"The Headmaster was there, too," Harry admitted, and he could imagine seeing the cogs turning in their heads as they tried to figure out why Harry would be taken to see the Headmaster already on his first day at Hogwarts.

"What did the old headmaster want, then?" Malfoy asked, feigning disinterest without much success.

"They had to decide what to do with my… education," Harry answered slowly, trying to avoid telling them too much. It was obvious that they wanted to know, which meant he had the advantage, especially if he didn't tell them. The question was why, why did they want to know? Knowing the answer to that question would make it easier to decide how much to tell them, what kind of information he could give them without giving them an advantage over him. Then again, Snape knew, and if he was Malfoy's godfather, then Malfoy would probably know sooner or later anyway. Not to mention that telling them might benefit him in this case, seeing as it might show them that he wasn't someone you could fuck with.

"Did they reach any interesting conclusions?" Nott asked quietly, and Harry sighed.

Tell or not tell, that was the question…

"Actually, the s… Snape will help me with some practical subjects," Harry explained, and their badly hidden interest immediately became bared as they leaned closer in interest, only a dark glare keeping Parkinson away. Thankfully, Greengrass didn't seem to have the same inclination to leaning in close and send off supposedly charming smiles.

"That's good!" Malfoy claimed with muted enthusiasm. "If anyone here at Hogwarts can help you, it is Severus. What subjects will he help you with?"

"Ehm… Defence? And charms and… McGonagall's subject?" Harry answered fleetingly as he hadn't committed the names of the classes to memory.

"Severus is very capable in all of them," Malfoy stated proudly, and Harry barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes in answer. Like he'd be able to learn anything from the guy when all he wanted to do was to maim him.

"What of the other subjects?" Nott asked, saving Harry from having to comment. The question caused his mood to plummet faster than a stone falling through thin air.

"I'll take them with the first-years," he replied bitterly, not looking forward to it in the least.

"What?!" Malfoy exclaimed, sounding scandalised as if he was the one who would have to study with the little shits. "Such an intolerable insult! You might have grown up with muggles, but I doubt you have the mental capacity of an eleven-year-old! Simply unacceptable!"

Harry glared at the blonde, feeling his temper flare hotly. As he'd already thought the exact same thing himself, Malfoy's words were like salt in an open wound. Not only that, but his previous anger that Snape had evoked had returned, making it seem like a really good idea to punch Malfoy in the face to relieve some pent up energy.

"I'm sure that's not what they thought," Greengrass injected smoothly, and Harry forced himself to unclench his fist and take deep breaths to calm down, reminding himself that he couldn't start fights this early on, that he had to get himself allies before he could make enemies and that he couldn't draw attention from the teachers, all of which he would do if he punched Malfoy now.

"I need a smoke," he stated and got up, leaving the Great Hall in long strides.

* * *

Monday rolled around, and with the beginning of the new week came the beginning of classes. The sleazy git went around the table in the morning to hand out timetables, dumping Harry's beside him on the table before he went on without giving the teen a sideways glance, showing just how much the man looked forward to the tutoring they had before them. Harry clenched his fist and bit his teeth together, reminding himself once again why he couldn't crack the bastard's skull open.

The timetable proved to be pretty slack, though, with free Monday afternoons and an attached note saying that he could use the time to self-studies. Yeah, right, he didn't even have the bloody books and even if he did, he wouldn't have studied.

Slack or not, it was still _hell_. First class Monday morning was Potions, held in a dark, dank classroom in the dungeons, a room that was cold even though it was still the end of summer. Harry shivered his way through the lesson, the discomfort making him cranky, and the professor, _Slughorn_, wasn't making things better with his constant attention. He'd spent the first ten minutes of class declaring how wonderful it was that Harry was among them, and the kids he was forced to take the class with should all take the chance to learn from him. Then he went on to lament the fact that he hadn't know that Harry had been on the train or he would have invited him to his carriage with the others, because Harry just had to meet the other young talents of Hogwarts! After 30 minutes, the man _finally_ invited Harry to something called the Slug Club – fucking worthless name, no way in hell was Harry going to join – before he actually started the lesson. And then it didn't matter what Harry did – everything was watched with a big smile and shitloads of praise, until Harry wanted to take the knife that they were supposed to chop ingredients with and bury it in the professor's fat neck.

Just as he left the classroom, he realized that the man reminded him of Vernon, fat and sucking up to anyone with a bit of fame. He was immensely happy that he wouldn't have to see the man again until Wednesday, both for his own sanity but also for the man's life. To calm himself, he spent the rest of the day in the dorm, lazing about in bed and fiddling a bit with his things as he smoked cigarette after cigarette. Luckily, he'd bought himself a stash of cigs before coming to Hogwarts, so it'd take a while before he'd run out, but at this pace, he was getting there sooner rather than later. He also managed to get his magic to make the curtains around his bed stick together so that no one but him would be able to enter, something that would allow him to sleep a bit more calmly at night, and also made it so that only he could open his trunk so that his stuff would be safe. Once the time for dinner came, he felt quite accomplished with himself as he lay in bed, a cig between his lips and music blearing in his ears.

He'd been at Hogwarts for two days and hadn't gotten into one single fight. It had to be some kind of record.

Then Tuesday morning and his first tutoring session with the slimy git came, which began with Harry arriving late since he still couldn't find his way around the bloody labyrinth they called a school.

"You are 14 minutes and 32 seconds _late_, Potter," the greasy git sneered once Harry had found the classroom. "Did you have something more _important_ to do with your precious time, perhaps?"

"The stairs moved," Harry bit out, the reasons to why he couldn't let his temper free repeating itself in his head like his new mantra.

"I can imagine they did, Potter. What I cannot imagine is why you would need to cross any moving stairs when going from the Great Hall to the dungeons," Snape answered venomously from where he stood by one of the desks, a white feather resting on the top. "Well, what are you waiting for? Your _wand_, Potter," Snape spat out when he didn't answer, and Harry sighed as he took his wand from his pocket, the wooden stick unfamiliar in his hand.

"Today, I expect you to learn how to perform the _Wingardium Leviosa_, one of the most basic spells taught to the first years. Seeing as you are sixteen years old and already appear to have some understanding of how to use your magic, you should be able to accomplish this task relatively quickly but I do not have any high expectations of you," Snape drawled, making it clear that he expected Harry to fail.

Harry clenched his fist, his knuckles turning white around the wand as the mantra repeated over and over in his head. The slimy git would get his expectation fulfilled because Harry had no idea of what the hell he was supposed to do. What the fuck as _Wingardium Leviosa _supposed to be?

"I knew you were incompetent, but even I thought you would know enough to be aware of the fact that you have to move your wand," Snape sneered after a moment of silence.

"What am I supposed to do?" Harry ground out, his teeth bitten together to the point where they ached. Would the wand snap if he used it to beat the bastard?

"If you would only _listen_, I have told you to perform the _Wingardium Leviosa_," the slimy shit answered, his eyes completely black as he glared at Harry, the teen returning the dark look vehemently.

"Yeah, I heard, but how do I do that?" he asked, every fibre of his being protesting, his instinct screaming at him not to show his weakness and that he was only admitting that the man was right by not knowing, but there wasn't much he could do since he did, in fact, not know! How was he supposed to perform some bloody spell when he didn't even know what it was supposed to do?

Silence stretched between them as Harry tensed his jaw and clenched his fists while Snape ground his teeth together, staring at him as if he couldn't believe how stupid Harry was. Really, this was just going _incredibly_ well.

"I can see that you lack any kind of… _academic motivation_, but I would have thought you would have enough respect for the Headmaster to listen to what he tried to teach you," the greasy git snarled, baring his teeth in fury as his voice became deadly quiet.

Harry glared in answer. How the hell was he supposed to remember what spell the Headmaster had tried to teach him? It wasn't as if he'd succeeded with any of them, so he hadn't bothered trying to remember them, not seeing any point whatsoever in doing so. Now that Snape had reminded him of the spell, he vaguely remembered that it was supposed to make feathers fly. Eager to get it over with and get away from the man as soon as possible, he pointed his wand at the feather but didn't even manage to open his mouth before Snape stopped him.

"No, Potter! You cannot simply point your wand at the feather, you imbecilic child!"

Harry closed his eyes and clenched his fist, the wood of the wand creaking in his hand. He couldn't afford to start a fight, he needed allies, he couldn't make enemies and he couldn't attract attention, so he most definitely _couldn't punch Snape in the face_. He took a deep breath and held it as he repeated the mantra a few times, promising himself a cig as soon as he got out of there, and slowly released the breath again.

He had decided that he'd make it through this session without exploding, and this fucker wasn't going to change that.

* * *

Compared to the session with the greasy git, the other classes were heaven on earth even though the little shits were a pain in the ass and the potions professor kept bugging him about his bloody club, creeping Harry out with his almost obsessive behaviour. Herbology was actually pretty nice; there was no teacher droning on and on, no one expected them to take notes while you had a Devil's snare trying to squeeze the life out of you and they weren't even in a classroom! The lack of theory in exchange for the more hands-on kind of approach definitely appealed to Harry, and he didn't mind finishing the day with dirt to his elbows and in his ear, even though he did wonder how it had gotten there.

Then there was Astronomy, and while Harry really didn't mind being up late, he usually spent his time… differently, so to say. Well, he sure as hell hadn't stayed up 'til the early morning at 'Brutus because he wanted to stare at some bloody stars, that was for sure. Instead of stargazers, maps and lectures about, well, _stars_, there tended to be booze, drugs and loud music to keep the mood up and keep the adrenaline going. By the end of his first Astronomy class, Harry was yawning along with the firsties, blaming the stars as he tried to hide the fact that he was about to fall asleep while walking.

Stars were bloody boring.

His favourite class so far was definitely History of Magic. The professor was a ghost, and how bloody cool wasn't that? He did have to admit that the level of "coolness" dropped considerably after five minutes when he, along with the rest of the class, realized just how boring professor Binns was, but Harry decided he didn't mind. The ghost paid just as little attention to his students as they did to him, after all, so no one cared when he pillowed his head on his arms and slept through the class.

Oh yes, he definitely liked History.

When half of the week had gone by, he was in a pretty good mood. Spending his free time with the gang of Slytherins, he was starting to get a hang of their personalities and motivations, even though the girls were still a big mystery, especially Parkinson who kept leaning in close and batting her eyelashes all the time. A fucking headache, she was. Still, things were going pretty well, and he was quite positive he'd make it through the whole of the first week without breaking any of the rules of his little mantra.

Then came Thursday.

**Now, a question for my dear readers who are better at English than me: in a future chapter, I would like to write that Harry punches a guy in the face and I'd like to say that "he gave him a straight right". I do realize that this sounds really awful in English since it is directly translated from Swedish, so how should I phrase it? Suggestions? :)**

**On a completely different note; has anyone seen the ad on TV for some kind of facial beauty cream called Snake Complex? The name only ever makes me think of Voldemort's snake face, so I must certainly ****don't**** want to buy it O,o **


	5. Chapter 5

**I know it's been long since the last update, and I do apologize for that. I will talk more about the reasons for it at the end of this chapter. For now, please do enjoy chapter 5 :)**

"Potter, you inept idiot! Is there nothing filling the space between your ears?" Snape barked irritably.

"_What_?!"

He'd said that damn incantation, waved his wand the way he was supposed to, and the blasted feather still hadn't risen from the desktop.

They were in the classroom in the dungeons where they'd had the first session and would, apparently, have all coming sessions as well. It was a pretty big room, but the only things present in it were the desk with the unmoving, white feather on top and the chair where Harry was seated, placed in the middle of the classroom as if to intimidate him and make him feel small. If that was the intention, then it had worked in the beginning – now, after hours and hours with no company but the greasy git and lunch as the only break, Harry was too angry to be intimidated by the shadows lurking in the corners and the tall, black form of the slimy shit that stalked around him, black eyes glaring down at his every move.

_Don't start a fight, get friends not enemies and don't attract attention to yourself. _

"Your pronunciation, Potter! You sound more like a troll then a wizard!"

Harry caught himself before he could ask if trolls really existed, and took a deep breath instead, his fingers itching for a cig to calm himself with. He couldn't do that right now, for obvious reasons, so he repeated his mantra quietly to himself as he tried again, performing the right swish and flick while carefully pronouncing the spell the way Snape had told him to do it. In his head, he tried a charm of his own: _Goddamned, fucking feather, move for fuck's sake!_

Nothing happened.

The smack of flesh hitting wood resounded through the room as Harry slammed his fist onto the desk in frustration and anger, and he badly wanted to throw the fucking useless wand into the wall and _I hope it turns to fucking splinters!_

His chest heaved as he tried to reign in his temper and ignore the black-clad fucker sneering down at him. Shit, he needed to get out of here, and he needed to do it _now_ or either the wand or Snape's nose would break. The only way to get the greasy git to release him seemed to be to actually do the shit he wanted him to do…

_Or_ make it _seem_ as if he was doing what he was supposed to do.

He supressed a grin as he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, making a show of calming himself before he looked at the blasted feather once again. With exaggerated care and precision, he swished and flicked the wand while uttering the incantation, secretly urging his magic to lift the feather into the air as he did so to make it look as if the spell had finally worked. Harry grinned openly when the feather obediently rose into the air, his green gaze following it triumphantly. _Finally he'd get out of here!_ And next time he'd meet the slimy shit, he'd just struggle with the spell for a bit to make it more realistic and then pretend to succeed with it.

When he turned to the professor, however, his black eyes seemed impossibly dark and he had a look of utter contempt on his sallow features, a sneer on his lips as he glared down at Harry as if he was the lowest of the low. Harry felt a chill go down his spine and stiffened in his seat, realizing that something had gone very wrong with his little plan.

Oh shit.

"Your arrogance must have gone over your head if you thought you would be able to fool me with your level of intelligence," Snape sneered angrily.

Harry growled in answer, angry and frustrated when he'd thought he'd had the solution, only to have it smashed to pieces before him. He couldn't stand the fucker, but he wouldn't get away from him until he'd managed to do magic – _with the fucking wand_ – and he simply couldn't do that! The fact that it was all completely useless didn't make it better, because he had absolutely no reason to learn how to use a wand when he could use his magic so much easily without one.

"Why the hell do I need the bloody wand?" he bit out, barely managing to keep his voice from rising into a shout.

"Do abstain from using such foul language in my presence, Potter," the slimy shit droned and Harry could feel how the frail hold on his temper was slipping like sand between his fingers. Luckily, Snape continued before he lost it. "The wand is a conductor, especially fashioned to correspond with your magic and further your abilities. It channels and focuses your magic, decreasing the magic acquired to-"

Harry stared at him blankly.

He'd lost him somewhere around "conductor".

The only thing he actually understood of what the greasy git was saying was that his magic was somehow supposed to go _through_ the wand, though he still couldn't see the point of it. He _could_ see the point of managing it, though, as it would be his ticket to getting out of here. Deciding that he'd better try since he might succeed and then escape this hellhole, he focused on the wand with his face scrunched up in a seldom seen look of concentration. Taking hold of his magic, he pushed it to go through the wand as he swished and flicked it while grunting the spell. A feeling of acute discomfort overcame him as he felt claustrophobically constricted when his magic was forced into the tight confines of the wand. For a moment, it felt as if he couldn't breathe and he gasped for breath, desperately trying to draw oxygen into his lunges.

In his panic, he barely noticed how the feather languidly rose into the air. When he did notice, he felt little satisfaction at the achievement, a frown wrinkling his brows. If this was what it was like to do magic with a wand, it wasn't fucking worth it.

Turning towards Snape, he saw the man open his mouth, no doubt about to deliver another one of one of his nasty comments, but Harry beat him to it.

"See? Now I've done it and I'm sure as hell not gonna do it again!" he snapped, raising from the chair so suddenly it fell over and clattered to the stone floor. "What a fucking pain in the ass. I'm outta here."

"Do sit down, Potter," Snape snapped back, his words like a lash, whipping up Harry's temper.

At that moment, however, Harry felt like he's rather die than do anything that the slimy shit told him to do so he turned around to glare hatefully at him, refusing to take even a step closer to the fallen chair. He didn't say anything because he could feel how thin his hold of his temper was at that moment, and just about anything could set him off right now. If he snapped, Snape would be the one to regret it.

Unfortunately for him, Snape didn't know that.

"The Headmaster might think you need special treatment because you're the Boy-Who-Lived, but don't expect me to treat you any differently just because you're famous. You are nothing but a petulant child who thinks he is omnipotent when he knows nothing and is unable to perform the even simplest of spells," Snape spat venomously, and that was it.

Harry snapped.

X.

Severus did not understand what had happened, which, in itself, was an unusual occurrence. He was, by no means, a stranger to pain and other alternative sorts of tortures seeing as the Dark Lord was keen on expressing his displeasure, but he had always been able to endure. Never had the Dark Lord taken him by surprise which had allowed him to steel himself, mentally prepare himself, for the pain that was to come. Most of the time he had even known what the motivation, no matter how lacking, there was behind the pain.

This time he had had no chance to prepare himself, which left him gasping and winded as an invisible force pressed him into the wall, squeezing his throat and cutting off his air supply. Once he managed to regain his bearings somewhat, he realized that he was on the other side of the classroom, his back aching from when he had impacted with the wall. The Potter boy was standing before him, his eyes furious and the air behind him disturbed as his magic rose threateningly. The magic in itself wasn't threatening – Snape had seen his fair share of first year students losing control of their magic and blowing up cauldrons when he was still the potions professor – but the _control._ He had known that the boy had some control of his magic, of course, but he would never had suspected that he controlled it to this extent. He had complete and perfect control over his magic in a way that very few wizards did, and Snape suddenly wasn't so sure that he'd be able to win a fight against the teen.

Then Potter was too close for comfort, his face no more than centimeters from Snap's, the anger blazing in his eyes. "The wand is _useless_. I'll be shot to death long before I'm done waving the bloody stick – I have _no_ use for it!"

Now that he knew how complete the teen's control was, he understood the truth of his words. Potter had little, if not nothing, to gain from using a wand. There were certain advantages, however, benefits of knowing regular magic even if one had no need of it, and Snape would make sure to use that knowledge. He might not be able to bully the teen into obedience like he usually did, but he would get Potter to work with him on this.

"Tell me, Potter," he rasped out, still slightly winded from his collision with the wall. "What would you do if a bright green spell comes your way?"

Green eyes so alike the spell he was speaking of stared at him incredulously, a frown between his brows as he seemed to wonder what Snape was on about.

"I'd get out of the way," he answered after a moment of pause.

"And what if you were unable to?"

"I guess I'd just…" Potter answered vaguely, waving his hand as if batting something aside.

"I imagine you would be able to ward off most spells without effort," Snape agreed quietly, thinking that a bit of flattery could get him a long way even if it tasted like ashes in his mouth. "The spell I have in mind, however, cannot be warded against – the killing curse, _Avada Kedavra_. In case someone should cast a curse at you, it would be beneficial for you to know what curses you can ward against and what curses you have to avoid through other means. Consequentially, it would do you well to know regular magic that is commonly practiced with wands."

Potter's eyes narrowed as he stared at Snape in silence, quietly debating what to do with the information he'd just been given. Meanwhile, the potions professor breathed a sigh of relief when the pressure of magic pressing him to the wall relented, allowing him to breathe properly and strengthen himself as his feet met the floor firmly. He felt cold sweat prickling on his forehead and could do little but hope that Potter would not notice as he forced his trembling hands to still, many years as a spy enabling him to repress most signs of stress. It had been a long time since anything even remotely similar to this had occurred, however, and it left him more shaken than he'd like to admit.

"So what? I just have to learn to recognize some spells, I don't have to actually learn them," he concluded after a while, and Snape felt a slight burst of triumph.

"Practicing magic without neither wand nor incantation will make you stand out, Potter. Wouldn't you ever like to avoid attention?"

It was a bit of a gamble, based on what little Minerva had said about Potter's upbringing and the teen's behavior up to this point, but when Potter's eyes widened, he knew it has paid off.

"If you manage to master the use of your wand, you'll be able to keep up appearance of being somewhat normal and your alternative method could be a secret, a great advantage against anyone with hostile intentions. Learning spells will also allow you to broaden your immediate alternatives of what to do with your magic, how you can use it and what you can do with it. It will not only allow you to defend yourself more effectively but also widen your horizons. I would also like to train your… personal way of using magic; shortening your reaction time and specifying your use to make it more effective," he quickly continued to give the teen a push in the right direction, leaving him with little choice but to conclude that Snape was right – which he was, of course.

The teen nodded slowly, a dangerous gleam in his green eyes as he realized his opportunity and the advantages of it. He wasn't stupid, Snape realized, but his disadvantageous situation sometimes made it seem so when people around him assumed that he'd know things that they thought were very basic but that he knew nothing of because he literally grew up in another world.

He realized, truly realized, that Potter was very different from what he'd thought. He wasn't an arrogant attention-seeker like his father had been, but a teen intent on surviving and fighting his way upwards in a world that was completely new to him. Even so, he doubted the boy would let others take advantage of him like some might have doneto get into people's good graces. No, Potter would take what he wasn't given, and if he ever helped anyone, he would see to it that the debt was repaid.

He was not the angel Dumbledore had expected, had not been made grateful and willing to help others as the old Headmaster had thought.

Snape found it very unlikely that Potter would be the savior Dumbledore thought he was.

Long after Potter had left, Snape's hands were still shaky and he could feel the ground shifting beneath his feat as Potter's entrance into the magical world brought changes. He could not help but look forward to seeing the teen again during the next week; the seemingly endless amounts of magic and possibilities fascinated him in a way nothing had for a long time.

X.

That evening when Potter entered the Great Hall for dinner, Draco noted that there was a new spring to his steps and a predatory, victorious look on his face that made a group of second years scramble aside in fight. It surprised him, because Potter's reaction to his previous session with Severus had led him to believe that he would look more like an angry storm cloud than a stalking predator. He wondered what had happened during the session to cause such an unexpected shift of mood, and glanced towards the Head table where Severus was already seated at his usual place, his black eyes following Potter but his face as expressionless as always, leaving Draco to wonder without answers.

Now that Potter was approaching their table, he moved aside to make space for him between himself and Nott as he had seen the way Potter reacted to women, going tense whenever he was forced into close proximity with a woman or was touched by one. It even happened that he moved out of the way in the corridors to avoid girls, which greatly intrigued him. However much he wished he knew what had made Potter so tense around women, answers would have to wait until later as he would have to share his findings with Daphne and Pansy so that the two girls could give Potter some space in order to put him more at ease.

The black-haired teen sat down beside him without a word, and he barely nodded in answer when Draco greeted him. Normally, the rude behaviour would have made him furious, but now it simply intrigued him. Potter was much like a wild animal that had been cornered and put in a cage, shying and flinching away when someone approached, lashing out and biting when someone came too close. He was curious as to what had caused Potter to become this way, what kind of life lay behind him as it was obviously something very different from life at Hogwarts, but he knew he would get no answers if he asked and even so, he probably would not have asked straight out seeing as it was not the Slytherin way of doing it. No, he'd have to approach Potter with care, get close to him and wheedle the answer out of him with time.

It would no doubt be beneficial to make a connection with Potter. Not only was he rich, the last heir of the Potter family, but also famous as the Boy-Who-Lived, that name alone giving him a certain status that would be hard for anyone else to attain. The Lord would most certainly also wish to get all information he could on the boy said to be his enemy, and if Draco could be the one to deliver that information, all the better.

Content with his plan of action, Draco smiled. Yes, he would do everything in his power to get close to Potter, and if the teen was a skittish animal, then Draco would treat him as such. That entailed a slow and patient approach, small, fleeting touches in the beginning until Potter had gotten used to his proximity and then further involvement. He looked forward to this, Draco realized and turned to answer something that Blaise had said about a recently received assignment. As he turned, he moved his hand to brush against Potter's arm, an ever so light touch. He felt the teen tense instinctively, only to relax a bit when he realized that Draco's touch had been accidental – or seemed to have been accidental.

A little at the time, that was the trick.

The wild beast would be tamed.

X.

Evening had fallen over the world, and the water of the lake was dark outside of the windows in the Slytherin common room. Harry lay sprawled in an armchair, calm after the after-dinner-cigarette and comfortably full and warm, the heavy base thumping from one ear bud, the other laying loosely against his chest so that he would have one ear free to listen to the other people around him in the room. They were all studying, playing cards or playing chess, more straight-backed than Harry had ever been even when they were relaxing, their tones sickeningly polite and their faces masks of disinterested detachment. There was no music except for Harrys, no drinking and no real games – even their game of cards was lame, the minor explosions the only excitement it had to offer.

_So fucking boring_.

Was this what they did with their free time? Really?

Fucking unbelievable.

"The fuck do you guys do for fun?"

The question was out before he could stop himself, before he'd even actually thought of asking, and the group of Slytherins spead out around him, _studying_, looked at him, surprise on their faces before they managed to mask it. They weren't used to swearing. _Right_…

Malfoy, who sat close beside him but at an okay distance, gathered himself the quickest, putting a smile on his face. "Well, there is a lot of studying, of course, as we need to uphold our grades," he answered and Harry lost his interest about halfway. "As you can see, we also play games such as Exploding Snap and Wizarding Chess, and when it weather is nice we like to play Quidditch."

Parkinson sniffed and threw her hair over a shoulder in obvious disagreement. "Breaks your nails," she claimed in clear dislike.

"So, what? Nothing else?"

"No…" Malfoy answered, seemingly unsure of what Harry had expected.

The teen sighed, the rush of air sounding a lot like a groan, and sank deeper into the armchair. Fucking unbelievable didn't cover it. They were all fucking good kids, bloody teachers' pets the lot. He'd never survive at this place.

"How… _tame_," he muttered, restraining his choice of word.

"Well, what did you expect?" Parkinson asked, her eyes wide as she watched him intently, too much interest in them for it to be real.

"Uh… Booze?"

Now they were all staring at him, questioningly, and he didn't have any idea of why. What had he said now? Booze? Wait a moment… _You've gotta be fucking kidding me!_

"You know… that you drink? Alcohol and… stuff?"

"This _is _a school, Potter," Malfoy pointed out, as if one closed out the possible existence of the other.

As if Harry hadn't noticed.

He shrugged. "So was 'Brutus."

"What kind of school allows alcohol among the students?" Parkinson, flickering her hair again, a slight frown of dislike between her plucked brows.

Harry shrugged again; he didn't know what to answer. What kind of school had 'Brutus been? Probably a bad one.

"It wasn't _allowed_," he answered after a moment of silence and the staring intensified.

"You mustn't do that, Potter," Malfoy said quietly, and Harry snorted. Did they really think he'd turn into one of the good kids? Hell no, not happening.

"No, Potter, really," the blonde continued, leaning closer and grabbing Harry's arm, making him jerk and tense, green and grey locking as they stared at each other.

Shit, he felt trapped. The room was suddenly too small and Malfoy was _too fucking close_. Every nerve in his body was screaming at him to push the other away, to fight or flee, get just _get away_. He was cornered, a fucking animal that couldn't get away, and he _hated it_. His magic stirred, ready to rise for him, do whatever he needed it to do, to throw the blonde across the room if he wished it.

"Breaking rules has consequences here," Malfoy said quietly, and the only think saving him from a short flight was the fact that there was no threat in his voice. "There are detentions and the loss of house points. Both would draw attention to yourself and, with time, alienate you from the rest of us Slytherins. If you wish to become part of the Supreme House of Slytherin, you need to learn the rules we live by here."

Green eyes flickered between grey ones that were uncomfortably close. The blonde's proximity made him tense and his magic was straining to lash out, his eyes narrowed in suspicion as he restrained his instincts. He did want to fit in; that was, after all, what "not attracting attention" was all about. He'd also realized that he needed to know the rules of this place to be able to make a space for himself, and here Malfoy was offering.

But what did he want back?

"Why?" he hissed, purposely lowering his voice so that only Malfoy would be able to hear him. "Why would you help me?"

Now it was Malfoy's eyes that narrowed as the blonde thought, apparently unsure of what to answer, the hesitation only serving to make Harry more suspicious. Then Malfoy nodded shortly and answered in a tone as low as Harry's: "You're famous, Potter. Everyone knows who you are. A friendship would be very beneficial to me in many ways."

He left it at that, leaving Harry to wonder what the benefits could be. Still, if simply knowing him could be that beneficial, then he definitely needed to know more of what advantages his name might bring and how he could use them, which lead to the conclusion that he would have to take Malfoy up on his offer. It would be a good solution, he decided, because the blonde could teach him what he needed without any hidden motives as they were both aware that they were using each other. He had also decided early on that if he approached anyone, it would likely be Malfoy, so it really didn't matter that Malfoy was the one doing the approaching as long as the results were the same.

"Teach me," he said quietly, the words more of a demand than the plead that would have fitted the situation better, but Harry didn't care. Whatever happened, he was not going to _plead_.

Malfoy smiled, released his arm and leaned back, giving Harry some space to breath, some of the tension leaving his high-strung body.

"Let's begin with the foundation of school life here at Hogwarts: homework."

Harry groaned as the other teen started quizzing him on what homework they had been assigned and, realizing that Harry had no idea what he was expected to do and that the teen hadn't even bothered purchasing the books he needed, the blonde hunted down some first years that shared Harry's class for them to tell him what homework they had. Half an hour later, they were sitting by a low table as Malfoy supervised and guided him through the schoolwork, now and then getting help from Nott whenever the blonde was unsure of how to explain something. It almost made Harry regret his decision – _almost._

After all, you can't play a game if you don't know the rules.

**I do, sadly, feel like I have lost the momentum of this story, partly because I'm more interested in writing the sequel that I already have planned in my head. Therefore, I need a pause from it to get back on track. I'm sorry, but if I simply continue pressing on, forcing myself, I doubt the quality of the result will be very high. So for my own and the story's sake, I beg you to be patient with me as I will not upload for some time. **

**I am really sorry about this, as it goes against my own ideals, but I have realized that I need this. Hopefully, I can use the time to structure my notes more, enabling me to be more efficient once I start writing again. **

**Sorry. **


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